


And World Peace

by FortySevens



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Frank Castle loves her anyway, Karen Page is a professional human disaster, Miss Congeniality AU, and especially when Karen has no idea about it, even when he’s in denial about it, featuring everyone's favs as pageant contestants, guess who's about to be hit in the face by a Two-By-Four of Feelings?, now entering Barbie Town, references to in-canon sexual assault, shades of bisexual Karen Page, tags and characters and ships to be updated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortySevens/pseuds/FortySevens
Summary: When the Miss United States Pageant is targeted by a terrorist known only as The Citizen, the FBI has no choice but to put one of their agents undercover in the pageant as a contestant.Unfortunately, the only agent in the entire bureau who fits the very specific profile of female, not pregnant, and allegedly looks good in a bikini is one Karen Page.She doesn’t own a dress—she doesn’t even own a brush.This has all the makings for the worst assignment, ever.





	1. “You’re really stuck on this bikini thing, aren’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nxbodygoesafterher](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nxbodygoesafterher).



> Happiest birthday nxbodygoesafterher! Hope you enjoy this nonsense!
> 
> The original plan was to get this out in one big one-shot, but I decided to make some changes to the back half, so more to come soon! I'm thinking this will be somewhere in the ballpark of three chapters!

This has all the makings for the worst assignment, _ever._

“You’re making me do this because of The Fuckup, aren’t you?” Karen Page scowls as she juggles a pair of overloaded coffee trays in her arms, a bag full of blueberry scones with the little granulated bits on top bashing into her hip with every step she takes. “Because I really feel like you’re making me do this because of The Fuckup.”

“ _No_ ,” Frank Castle, her partner and current second-least-favorite person in the entire bureau, drawls like he hasn’t told her this a hundred times since she walked into the building, running late because of traffic, human incompetence, and the inability of the Starbucks baristas to handle the FBI’s oversized and unnecessarily intricate coffee orders. “I’m having you do this because you’re the best—the _only_ agent for the job. You know that.”

Karen stops walking, looks at Frank for a long, long time until—he finally breaks and runs a hand over the back of his neck, “And a little bit because of The Fuckup.”

“ _Goddamnit Frank._ ”

“What?” He fires back as they start walking again. “It’s an undercover mission, Karen. You _love_ undercover missions. The Fuckup was supposed to _fuck up_ your career so badly that you were never going to be able to _go_ on undercover missions _ever again_.”

“There’s undercover missions, and then there’s undercover missions that require me to _wear a bikini on national television!_ ” She stops again and whirls on him hard enough that one of the coffees tips over, staining her white blouse, and she hisses from the heat while Frank tips the cup back upright. “I am _too pale_ to be in a bikini on national television! People will go blind! My white ass will cause a national crisis!”

Frank just stares owlishly at her, his dark eyes wide.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” she grumbles, jabbing him in the arm with her elbow before shuffling into the conference room so she can dole out the crap in her arms before the morning briefing commences.

She understands, she really does, how much he’s sticking his neck out for her with this case—the first in his career that he’s headed up since joining the bureau after more than a decade in the Marines, which is a big deal, the _biggest deal,_ because he’s one of the best tactician the bureau has, and deserves the recognition.

And she did fuck up, _bad_.

So if this really is her last and only chance to go back undercover, she should probably be a little more grateful, but—

A bikini?

Seriously?

This is going to be a disaster.

Karen slouches to her spot at the table next to Frank while Special Agent Mitchell Ellison comes in and stops behind the podium, “Before we begin, another update from the hospital,” he says with a pointed look in Karen’s direction that she _does not react to not one bit_. “Curtis is going to be released this weekend. He is expecting lots of takeout to be delivered to his apartment. Take note, the doctors don’t want him having too much spicy foods.”

The rest of the briefing wraps quickly—thank goodness, because despite the fact that she’s the only person available from the bureau to do this job, he _really hates_ that she’s not on desk duty.

—

The mission is simple.

Allegedly.

The bureau’s been after this serial nut job—The Citizen—for _months_ , almost a year. They’re always one step behind and stuck digging through the rubble for evidence, waiting for the next letter to come in.

And it finally has.

They’re planning to attack the upcoming Miss United States Pageant.

And because there is literally no one else in the entire bureau available for undercover work who fits the very specific profile of female, not pregnant, and allegedly looks good in a bikini, Karen Page has been voluntold into service as the next Miss Vermont.

This has all the makings of the worst mission of her life.

Which includes that time—mere days ago—when she almost got her neck sliced through by an angry Russian mobster whose life she tried to save from an incorrectly swallowed peanut.

The road to Hell and all that…

—

Karen Page, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the United States absolutely does not _run away_ from mission prep.

Nope.

Going to the gym is a strategic retreat so she can beat out her frustrations on the punching bags, rather than on her colleagues’ much more breakable noses.

Frank.

  
It’s Frank’s breakable (and many times formerly broken) nose that she’s worried about.

But, of course, he follows her down like he doesn’t have an entire op to plan.

No, why would he do that when he has David Lieberman to do his bidding, leaving him _plenty of time_ to harass her.

Maybe he does need to have his nose broken again?

“Come on, Page, it’s going to be fine.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Karen grumbles as she swipes a hand through her tangled, disheveled ponytail before going back to the practice dummy in front of her.

Frank props himself behind it, “Oh come on,” he drawls with that stupid smirk on his stupid face that she really wants to _punch_ , almost more than his stupid nose. “It’s a week in San Antonio. What could be bad?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hisses, rounding off a kick that clips Frank in the ear and makes him stagger back. “Maybe the fact that some crazy terrorist want to _blow up the event?_ Or the fact that _I’m_ going to be stuck surrounded by Barbies for a week? Or—oh, I don’t know, the fact that I have to pretend to _be_ one of those Barbies? The last thing I want to do is parade around like some air-headed bimbo who goes by the name of what? Karen Freebush? And all she wants is world peace? I don’t even own any dresses. I don’t even own a brush!”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” Frank grumbles as he rubs the side of his head where her shoe made contact. “Who knows? You might even _like_ some of those _Barbies_.”

Karen punches the dummy square in the nose, because Frank really can’t afford to have _his_ nose broken for the five millionth time—and if she’s responsible for it, she’ll have to explain exactly why Frank needs reconstructive surgery, _again_ , to his ex-wife, “If this is because of that _one drunken conversation_ I barely remember us having where I _maybe_ talked about what kind of woman I _might_ be interested in, then—“

“Whoa, whoa,” Frank holds his hands up, placating look on his face that does _nothing_ to actually placate her. “Definitely not.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Frank steps up to the mat, rounds behind her as she keeps punching the dummy, “Well like it or not, it makes you the most important member of the undercover team. All you have to do is some butt-shaping exercises for the next couple days and you’ll be able to pull this off.”

She whirls on him, “I _know_ you are not talking about _my ass_ Frank Castle.”

“Is there a chance you’re just being a little overdramatic about all this?”

“Overdramatic?” Something inside her snaps. “You want to talk overdramatic? Talk about _this!_ ”

And then she lunges at him.

Sparring with Frank is usually one of her favorite things, especially once he got over his fear that he would actually hurt her if he didn’t hold back.

  
Sparring with Frank when she’s pissed off at him, though, not so much.

But damn if she’s not going to try to pull his stupid head from his shoulders anyway.

“Ellison’s letting you do this because he wants to torture me, right?” She tightens her grip when she tries to flip her off his side. “Or is this some female-empowerment, hashtag Me Too, crap that the bureau can use for publicity and recruitment while still treating their new female agents like glorified gophers? That’s got to be it.”

She may or may not have some strong feelings about that.

Frank sweeps his leg out, catching hers, and he manages to flip her back to the mat, “Don’t kid yourself,” he says, somewhat winded, and maybe she was trying a little too hard to rip his head off. “Nobody thinks of you as the shining beacon of what a female FBI agent can be.”

Or not hard enough.

Flipping to the side, Karen knocks into his head with her calf, sending him sprawling.

They continue to grapple for a while, long enough to get attention from their fellow agents, including Mahoney and Lieberman—who is definitely _not_ upstairs and doing Frank’s mission prep for him—and through the haze of her rage, Karen hears the sounds of bets being made about their fight.

Jackasses.

Her colleagues are jackasses.

She gets her arm around Frank’s neck again, tries to put him in a chokehold, but he flips her onto her back to the sounds of both cheers and boos as he holds his arms up in victory.

“So, you’re saying I have to wear the bathing suit?”

“Yeah,” he leans down so she can see the smirk on his face. “You have to wear the bathing suit.”

  
Karen brushes a hand over her face, finally nods, “Okay,” she says, and then sweeps his legs out from under him.

That gets her a “You go girl,” from David, and he better split whatever winnings he gets with her, or she’s going to post Photoshopped pictures of his face on a bikini-clad model’s body all over the office.

“Where am I supposed to keep my gun?” Karen asks as she catches her breath, too exhausted from all the scrambling to do more than stare at the rafters.

She feels the smack of Frank’s open palm to the side of her lycra-clad hip, dangerously close to non-HR-appropriate territory—also thanks to the hashtag Me Too era they now live in, “Nowhere I want to think about.”

“Ugh,” she groans, weakly thrusting her foot out and catching him in the back. “I hate you so much.”

Out of the corner of her eye, he sees him flop a hand in her general direction, and she gets a little bolt of satisfaction by the fact that he’s as winded as she is, “You uh,” he starts, stops, and then starts again. “You know the butt-shaping exercises thing was a joke right? You already have a great ass.”

Karen lifts her head up off the mat so he can feel the force of her scowl, “You are going to owe me so much beer when this is all over. You’re going to be buying me drinks for the _rest of my life_.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

—

“What could possibly motivate anyone to enter a beauty pageant is beyond me,” Karen grumbles as they make their way to the pageant offices, not far from the traffic-congested drag that is Midtown.

Thanks to spending long minutes haranguing David for her half of his winnings, Karen had zero time to change after their _friendly argument_ in the gym—all she could do was throw an oversized flannel on over her sweat-soaked t-shirt, and her hair’s still in that matted ponytail. She’s feels like the walking and talking human disaster most people think she is.

And then there’s Frank, in his coat and tie and shiny shoes.

Because _he_ had time to change.

Ugh.

“Scholarship money,” Frank lists. “Chance to broaden your horizons. Meet new people. See the world.”

“So join the Marines,” she says, exasperated, and throws her arms up in the air as they cross the street. “You literally did _all of that_ , and didn’t have to put on a dog and pony show in a bikini.”

“You’re really stuck on this bikini thing, aren’t you?”

Before she can respond, Frank’s opening the door to the pageant offices, gesturing for her to go in ahead of him. Karen almost hesitates, because while Frank Castle does have manners, he is _not_ the type to go around opening doors for _her_ of all people.

Weird.

The only way for Karen to describe the pageant offices is _glittery_ , and she can feel her skin start to itch thanks to the vacant stares of the portraits of pageant winners’ past. It’s like the Haunted Mansion, but with rhinestoned crowns and _much_ bigger hair.

“Uh, can I help you?” The girl sprawled behind the front desk asks, even though she barely looks up from her phone.

Karen glances at Frank and shrugs, and he rolls his eyes at her before pulling his badge from the inner pocket of his jacket, “We have an appointment with Mrs. Fisk,” he says. “Agents Castle and Page with the FBI.”

That gets the girl to look up, and her eyes flick from Frank to Karen to Frank, and then back to Karen again. “Really? _You’re_ FBI?”

“Real life’s not as glamorous as all this nonsense, kid,” Karen shoots back as she pockets her badge.

The girl puts her hands up, “Whatever, I’ll let Mrs. Fisk know you’re here.

They’re eventually escorted back to Mrs. Vanessa Fisk’s office, and soon after are joined by show’s host, TV personality Foggy Nelson. 

“I see you’ve met my daughter, Amy,” Mrs. Fisk says as she sits down, and Karen arches a brow when she notices that Frank waited until they were both seated before he took his own. “She’d much rather be out with her friends, but my husband and I agreed that she’s better served with the structure of a summer job.”

Honestly, Karen could care less about some rich lady’s equally rich and probably spoiled child, so she sprawls back in her chair and lets Frank take control the conversation.

“Therefore,” he finishes. “We’d like to use one of our team, undercover.”

“I’m not sure I’m hearing this correctly,” Mrs. Fisk says after a moment.

“Vanessa,” Foggy pipes up. “These people want to put one of _their agents_ in the pageant.”

Which is literally what Frank just said, and Karen resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Do you want her to _win_?”

Frank shakes his head, “No, ma’am,” he looks at Karen, and she shrugs, because she is _not_ about to start explaining any of the logistics. Nope. He’s the one running the op. Ball is in _his_ court. “But we will need your help with the judging, to make sure our agent gets into the top-5, that way they have access to all the areas on the stage, at all times.”

Openly gaping, Mrs. Fisk looks _appalled,_ “Absolutely _not_. We can’t risk the integrity of the entire event for one of your agents.”

“Mrs. Fisk,” Karen finally pipes up. “We understand how important this beauty pageant is to you, so-”

Mrs. Fisk stands up, “ _Excuse me_ ,” she smiles, but it’s definitely not one of those nice, _pleasant_ smiles. No, this one is like she’s resisting the urge to stab Karen in the chest. “This is _not_ a beauty pageant. This is a _scholarship program_ , and it has been since my reign.”

And now, for whatever reason, Foggy and Frank are standing up, so Karen pulls her own sore body up and off the chair too.

“I fully intend on maintaining that credo.”

  
“Absolutely, Mrs. Fisk,” Frank is quick to assure, giving Karen that glance out of the corner of his eye, wordlessly telling her to stand the hell down. “We’re here to protect the girls— women—the scholarship ladies.”

Karen has to hold back an entirely inappropriate snort of laughter at his fumbling.

“There’s nothing more important to me than the safety of my girls,” Mrs. Fisk says, and they all sit back down, so that exercise was pretty much useless. “I would much rather cancel the pageant than have one of them blown up!”

“Especially without their knowledge,” Foggy adds sagely.

As Karen resist the urge to bash her head into the glass conference table, Frank swipes his cup of water, holds it in his hand as he talks, “We went to the network to cancel, but they refused. We can’t force them.”

After a moment, Foggy holds up his hand, raising it like he’s asking a question in a high school classroom, “I’m sorry, but what state is this agent going to be from? All the winners have already been chosen.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Nelson. We recently discovered some information about the winner from Vermont.”

“And her performance in a little film called ‘Arma-get-it-on’,” and there’s that snort as she puts up a couple air-quotes, because the look on Fisk and Nelson’s faces is—

As priceless as one of those scholarship opportunities, Karen is pretty sure.

“Was that her?” Foggy asks.

And okay, Karen might have _just the slightest bit_ of respect for the dude.

“Oh yeah,” Karen laughs, snorts again and out of the corner of her eye sees Frank cringe a little, but it’s not like she can help it, that’s just how she laughs. “So she’s going to drop out pretty soon, if you know what I mean.”

Mrs. Fisk blinks out of her shock after another moment, “So, do you have an agent in mind?”

Karen raises her hand, and Mrs. Fisk bursts into laughter, which cuts off when she realizes that they’re actually serious, “Sorry,” Mrs. Fisk does have the dignity to look somewhat embarrassed, or whatever passes for embarrassment for rich people. “You’ll probably want to find yourselves a pageant consultant. Unfortunately, all the good ones have already been hired. I’m not sure how else the bureau would like to proceed.”

Which Karen understands—she has _no idea_ how they’re supposed to turn _her_ of all people into one of these vapid, sash and gown wearing figures in the body-length portraits covering every single wall in every single room of the pageant offices.

She barely knows wha that’s supposed to entail—doesn’t _want_ to know, really—but it probably means she’s going to have to shave her legs.

Fuck, she _hates_ shaving her legs.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Fisk,” Frank says easily. “I already have a consultant the bureau is going to bring on.”

“ _You do?_ ” Karen and Mrs. Fisk echo one another with mirrored levels of incredulity.

Frank looks at Karen and smirks, “Yes, I do,” he turns back to Mrs. Fisk. “We just wanted to ensure that everything was on board with your organization and the network before we got the ball rolling.”

Fuck, this is going to be _so bad._

They’re on their way out of the office when Karen sees the girl at the front desk—Amy—talking to a tall blonde in a wearing a wrinkled suit.

Frank does that thing where he holds the door for her, again, and Karen is about to call him out for being absurd when they hear a short, sharp, “ _Dex!_ ” shouted by Mrs. Fisk, and her voice rings throughout the entire offices.

Leaning back in her chair, Amy laughs and looks up at the guy, “You better go see what the Dragon Lady wants before she blows another gasket.”

The guy, Dex, shrugs, and Frank is leading Karen out before she hears anything more.

“So,” Karen looks up at him and crosses her arms over her chest. “How the hell do you know a _pageant consultant_?”

Frank smirks, “You’ll see,” he pats a hand on her back and pushes her up the sidewalk. “Come on, we gotta get to Brooklyn.”


	2. “It is always yes, never yeah.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell? There’s a hole in this dress.”
> 
> “That’s not a hole,” Billy says over his shoulder as he rifles through packages of undergarments in a box next to him.
> 
> “I’m pretty sure, as an agent of the FBI, I’m smart enough to know what is considered a hole,” Karen says, tugging at the hole, mostly to convince herself that she’s not hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me and that it took so long to churn this one out!
> 
> July has been a wild month, between getting stranded in Boston and dealing with some tricky stuff that goes part and parcel with building your own business, and getting ready to leave for California tomorrow. Anybody looking for a coach? Hit me up.
> 
> And for the record, nxbodygoesafterher, as long as this fic goes unfinished, it’s still your birthday, so you best still be celebrating!

Next, Frank takes her to _the most gentrified_ of gentrified Brooklyn.

  
It’s so gentrified Karen swears her skin starts to itch from an allergic reaction to the gentrified-ness of it all.

Or, it could be because she _still_ hasn’t had a chance to change her sweat-soaked t-shirt.

It’s probably the latter, but that’s not going to stop her from blaming it on the former.

They walk into one of the most aggressively floral cafes Karen has _ever seen_ , and now the itching might be an actual allergic reaction to all the pollen floating through the air.

Inside, the cafe smells heavily of probably the fairest-trade of fair-trade coffee and pastries made from scratch that probably don’t contain any gluten or any other animal products.

It’s only moderately crowded for the lunch hour, and a glance at the hand-drawn chalk menu tells her that the prices are so absurd that it’s _only_ people who don’t have back-breaking day-jobs who could afford to just fuck off to lunch wherever the hell they want, and specifically at a place like this.

Frank leads her to a table on one side of the cafe, where a man in an impeccable—and _expensive—_ suit stands up from behind one of the circular, marble-topped tables. He has slicked-back dark hair and even darker eyes, the shadow of a neat beard on his jaw.

And the second his gaze lands on Karen, she feels the force of it like a physical thing when it turns into a scowl, summarily dismissing her, before he looks at Frank, “Are you serious Frankie?” He asks while Frank claps a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re asking me to do what I think you’re asking me to do, then I’m going to tell you right now that I can’t do it. Not in 48 hours. I quit. Right here, right now.”

Karen scowls, “Nice to meet you too, asshole.”

“Play nice,” Frank nudges her with his elbow before clasping Billy on the shoulder again. “If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you, buddy. Billy Russo, meet Karen Page. Karen, this is my buddy Billy. He’s going to get you ready for the pageant.”

“The hell I am,” Billy protests. “What you want me to do is impossible.”

Karen crosses her arms over her chest, rolls her eyes, “So I’m having a bad hair decade, you really think you can’t handle that?”

Dismissing her— _again_ —in a way that makes Karen clench her fists, Billy turns back to Frank, “I can’t possibly do this. There is no way on earth I could make this woman ready in two days.”

“Give it a chance,” Frank needles, just like that way he does when he’s trying to convince Karen to help him finish his field reports so they can bug off early for beers. “Have lunch, it’s on the bureau. Whatever you want.”

“Ah, well,” Billy caves—which means that as rich as he may be, he’s still cheap as fuck. “Guess it’ll give us a chance to catch up.”

“Actually,” Frank says in that tone that has Karen’s hackles rising even more than they already are. “I have to get back to the office. I have uh—a meeting.”

“ _What damn meeting_ could you possibly have?” Karen hisses out the side of her mouth.

“An important one. You know how it is, running your own op means having a lot of important meetings,” he says, pointed, before turning to Billy. “Thanks for agreeing to do this. I’ll get you an FBI cap.”

If Billy weren’t so strait-laced, Karen imagined that he’d be rolling his eyes at Frank, “You’ve given me enough caps over the years Frankie,” he says, droll. “I don’t want any more caps.”

“I’ll get you another one,” he pats Billy on the shoulder. “See you back at the office Karen.”

“ _Traitor_.”

It’s only a little bit of a consolation that Billy is looking at Frank’s retreating back with the same look of betrayal that she feels.

But _only_ a little.

The door jingles behind him as Frank makes his retreat to the real world, leaving her in this floral-filled nightmare, and Billy finally sighs—if he weren’t so polished and composed, Karen would guess he’d be raking a hand through his aggressively perfect hair in resignation, “Well,” he heaves like it pains him greatly. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“ _Yes_.”

Karen blinks as she inches toward at the comedically undersized table, “Yeah?”

“It is always _yes_ , never _yeah_ ,” Billy says with an irritated clip, and this is going to be the _longest_ lunch of her life. “Sit down.”

_Great_.

“ _Miss United States_ is always well spoken and polite,” Billy says as he sits and neatly drapes his napkin over his lap, while a waiter with thick-rimmed glasses and a sloppy man-bun approaches their table. “I’ll have a large, horchata latte, please, and the special of the day.”

The waiter turns to Karen, barely giving her a chance to glance at the overly complicated artisanal menu that is either half in French, or in an actually made-up language she’d need the departments codebreakers to help her decipher, “I need all the espresso you can fit into your largest cup. Scalding, and keep it coming,” she says. “Oh, and the turkey club.”

“Do you mean our to-fur-key club?”

Karen blinks back down at the menu, and then sighs, “Yeah, whatever.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Billy intones to the waiter before he walks off. “Okay, so we’re going to have to work on our definition of _polite_ , as well as deal with your—quite frankly— _atrocious_ posture _.”_

_“Quite frankly_ , I don’t care what you think of me or my posture,” Karen fires back. “I’m here to do a _job_ , _you’re_ here to do the job Frank hired you to do, so why don’t you dispense with the insults and _start doing it_.”

“You’re not exactly making it easy for me.”

This time, Karen does roll her eyes, but fortunately, the barista comes by with their drinks. Karen knocks back half of her scaling coffee before dropping the mug back on its irritatingly floral and mismatched saucer with a _clang,_ and it’s only then that she notices Billy glowering down his nose at her.

  
She resolves to ignore it, all the way until she can’t, “ _What_?”

“How have you not died from a caffeine overdose?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Karen knocks her cup back again, and then swipes at her mouth with the back of her wrist, “Dunno,” she snarls when Billy winces. “Ask your buddy. He drinks way more coffee than I do.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

When their lunches come, Karen picks warily at her woeful attempt at a turkey sandwich, which seems to be giving Billy conniptions, “So, you’re a friend of Frank’s, yeah—er, _yes_?”

One of Billy’s meticulously-groomed brows arches, “Yes. We’ve known each other for more than twenty years.”

“So you were a Marine,” she takes a tentative nibble on her sandwich, and cringes—to-fur-key is _miles_ away from turkey—but doesn’t wait for Billy to confirm it. “And if you were a Marine, how the hell did you end up getting into _pageant_ consulting of all things?”

“If you _must_ know, I was a pageant coach long before I joined the Marines,” Billy says in that same irritated clip. “And that’s all you need to know.”

She rolls her eyes, “All-righty then. Whatever.”

—

Fortunately, she survives lunch.

It’s still up for debate if she’s going to survive the commute back to the office from Brooklyn.

Stomach still rumbling—it’s going to be another night for a massive Grub-Hub order, at least if she makes it home before dawn to pack before they have to turn right back around and leave for San Antonio—Karen leads the way out of the cafe, well aware and wary of Billy’s gaze on her back, “Oh my god,” he mutters. “I’ve seen Marines who walk better than you do.”

Karen rounds on him, “If you really think that comparing me to Frank is going to be an insult, then-“

“Oh no, he walks almost as bad as you do. No surprise that you enable one another.”

Billy walks up to her side, puts a hand on her upper back, “If you’re going to even think about pulling this off, I’m going to need you to glide.”

“To _what_?”

“ _Glide_ ,” Billy pushes her forward. “Skim one foot in front of the other, _and glide_.”

“I’m pretty sure those instructions don’t actually mean anything,” Karen says, but does move forward in some probably-vain attempt to _glide_.

“Don’t pick your feet up— _stop_ picking your feet up, Page, that’s not how this works! What are you _doing_?” He _almost_ grunts in frustration, but apparently he’s too posh for that. “You picked your feet up less when you walked like you were about to go off and kill a bunch of insurgents in Kandahar.”

Karen stops, resists the urge to tear her hair out, “I’m preparing to kick you in the nuts.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Billy mutters and moves ahead of her on the crowded sidewalk. “Just _watch me_.”

Oh, like he couldn’t have bothered to demo this before she started frog-marching up the street?

Billy walks a few paces ahead of her, and she has _no concept_ of how his _gliding_ is any different from her normal walking, “It’s all in the buttocks, isn’t this prettier than how _you_ walk?” she can’t help but cringe as he almost _twirls_ to face her again. “And it’ll probably go better if you actually _stood up straight!_ ”

With a groan, she starts moving again, rolling her hips, as if that’s supposed to _help_.

“Keep your head up!” Billy coaches as they walk into the intersection. “You chin should be parallel to the ground! You’re walking like a damn neanderthal!”

Before she can whirl on him and tell him what she _really thinks_ of his allegedly top-tier coaching, the blare of a taxicab and the screech of tires brings her focus to the yellow vehicle that almost knocked her legs out from under her, “Hey!” She smacks the hood. “I’m gliding here! Asshole.”

She hears the cabbie call her something rather unpleasant, but instead of responding like she usually would—yanking open the cab door and putting the fear of the bureau in the guy—she glides right on out of the intersection.

Billy follows close behind, one hand over his mouth, considering, and this is definitely going to be the worse mission _of her life_.

—

Hours of briefings and mission prep later, and they’re en route to San Antonio, but instead of catching some much-needed z’s, Billy has his laptop on the table in front of her, and is putting her through some serious, _definitely unconstitutional_ torture.

Seriously, he must have learned some of this shit from the people down at Gitmo.

“Look how she walks. She’s lightly ascending, from cloud to cloud, toward heaven.”

The woman in the glittering dress—with a seriously enviable and _definitely fake_ rack—poses for the crowd, and Karen wishes she wasn’t crammed into the window seat so she could pitch herself out the airlock and release herself from this nightmare.

“Are you sure she didn’t win on the merit of her tits?” She grumbles, scowling out of the corner of her eye at the scotch Billy knocks back in one admittedly impressive go. “And look at this one? She’s going to cry, _again!_ Oh, if I only had a brain!”

Billy turns to her, flares full-on, “You need to take this more seriously, or you’re not going to make it _one second_ in a room full of these women. They’re smarter than you think they are, Page.”

“And so am I.”

She glares at his retreating back before returning to this video montage from hell.

—

Billy Russo needs a drink.

_A lot_ of drinks.

Why the FBI’s private jet comes with its own wet bar, he’ll never know, but he’s not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

“How’s she doing?” Frank asks as he comes up and refills his scotch to the brim.

“Frankie boy, you never told me your work-wife is a goddamn disaster,” Billy props his arm on the bar, looks back at Karen as she rolls her eyes at the video before slumping down in her padded seat like she’s about to take a nap. “Honestly, this is one of the most painful situations you’ve ever put me through, _including_ that time in Iraq when I got shot in the leg and you had to carry me five miles back to base.”

Frank rolls his eyes, the movement very identical to the one Billy’s seen Karen pull off more than once in the half-day he’s known her, and seriously, this is a little ridiculous.

“Come on man, she’s not that bad,” he protests, but Billy’s known him long enough that Frank has absolutely _zero_ legs to stand on in this argument. “And she’s _not_ my work-wife.”

Nor does he have a leg to stand on in _that_ argument, either.

He’s sat through enough conversations with Frank about the great and wonderful Special Agent Karen Page, none of which reconciles _at all_ with the woman he’s been dealing with.

“Buddy, she’s _more_ your work-wife than I was back when we were in the Marines. You two seriously haven’t figured this out yet?”

Frank shifts in his seat, angles his head back down to the paperwork in his lap, but Billy can still see the way his ears have gone bright red, “Nothin’ to figure out. Leave it alone Russo.”

Oh, throwing out the last names, is he?

Taking another sip of his drink, Billy props his hip against Frank’s chair, looks back at Karen, considering.

If he tilts his head, maybe squints a little, he guesses he can kind of see what Frank sees in her.

Maybe?

Of course, that’s when Karen snorts, startling herself out of her doze—and David Lieberman, in the row behind her, out of his—and she looks around to make sure no one saw her before settling back into her nap.

Okay, so maybe _after_ the makeover, he’ll be able to figure out what Frank could possibly see in her.

Until then, he’s going to take advantage of some of the other FBI private-jet perks.

Specifically, the free wifi.

Billy pulls his phone from his pocket, and scrolls through his contacts for Maria’s number.

If he has to put up with these two idiots all week long, then so does she.

—

“I can already feel my hair starting to frizz,” Karen grumbles as they finally deplane in Texas, the jet stopped outside of a massive hanger brimming with activity in spite of the late hour.

“Oh yeah, we’re going to deal with that,” Billy says from ahead of her. “It might mean shaving it all off and getting you a wig, but we’re going to deal with that.”

“Over my dead body.”

Frank laughs, but when Karen turns her glare to him, he covers it— _very unconvincingly—_ with a cough, “Okay Bill,” he recovers, but not enough for her to stop glaring at him—this is _his_ _fault_ , after all. “We got everything you asked for. Where do we start?”

  
“Teeth, hair, manicure, pedicure.”

“What do you mean _teeth_?”

Billy’s eyebrow arches as he leads the way toward the bustling hanger’s massive doorway, “Hopefully find a way to deal with your decades of caffeine abuse.”

The room truly is massive, built for planes, but half has been cleared out, replaced with people and machines and tables and—is that a person-sized oven? What the shit?—and a monotone female voice on the PA system calling for the electrolysis and hair removal teams.

Okay, now _this_ is the real torture.

She stops short, just inside the gaping set of doors, glances out of the corners of her eyes for _any place_ that she could possibly hide in for long enough that their only option ends up being turning one of the _real_ pageant contestants into a confidential informant.

“Come on, Page,” Frank claps her on the shoulder hard enough that she jolts. “It’ll be fun.”

Oh she is going to _strangle_ the man.

“Says the asshole who isn’t about to suffer through a bikini wax.”

Frank shrugs, but remains completely unapologetic, “I can find you some vodka?”

“You better.”

Just like that, a pair of women in scrubs and masks—straight out of her least-favorite horror movie—whisk her off to a curtained off section of the massive warehouse, “Strip,” the one with frizzy red hair orders while the other, a brunette with matching dark eyes, removes the plastic packaging from around a paper-thin, hospital gown-like blue garment.

With another glare, Karen removes her t-shirt and baggy jeans, standing there in just her underwear, “I better get those back,” she mutters while the dark-haired woman stuffs them into a bag that—if Billy gets his way, probably—is probably destined for the nearest incinerator.

The gown is just as thin and as short as she feared it would be, so not only is she going to be flashing her underwear at half her FBI colleagues, but the damn thing _itches_ like none other.

What entity did she piss off in her last life to deserve this?

Shifting the gown so it covers her ass _just a little more_ , she stomps out after the pair of orderlies, who lead her to a padded chair that also looks like something just out of her nightmares.

And also could have been stolen from her dentists’ office.

It’s going to be a _long_ night.

Once they finish with the absolute torture that is detangling her hair—and possibly removing her scalp from its delicate attachments to the rest of her cranium, she’s gets the worst news of the night.

It’s waxing time.

“Where’s my vodka, Castle?” She shouts across the warehouse as she’s all but dragged over to the sham of a private waxing suite.

“No alcohol!” Billy calls from somewhere off to her left, where he’s considering a rack of pastel dresses with the intensity she uses to dismantle live ordinance. “Last thing we need is a bloated Miss Vermont.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she grumbles, finally locks eyes with Frank—he gets to do _fun_ FBI things like check and make sure all their rifles are cleaned and accounted for, and mouths, “ _Get me that vodka_.”

He does not get her that vodka.

  
_Traitor_.

After the completely inhumane treatment of the anti-hair-that-is-not-on-your-head esthetician, Karen is once again dragged across the warehouse, another faceless orderly slathering a thick, brown mask onto her face while another touches at a smudge on one of her freshly-painted nails.

It’s a pale blue color, and she will admit—if only to herself—that it’s kind of pretty.

And then it’s back to hair.

She’s not sure _what_ they’re doing back there, but if she ends up leaving this place like she’s en-route to the CMA’s she’s going to be _pissed._

—

A little while later, it’s time for yet _another_ briefing.

Karen’s got a new mask on her face—this one green and frothing a little, which makes her skin itch—enough foil in her hair to broadcast to the aliens that attacked New York a few years ago, and some kind of protein shake in one hand, because apparently _she’s_ not allowed to even breathe the scent of the double-supreme mega-sandwich that covers two of the tables over by catering.

She tried smuggling one under her gown, but Billy caught her, replaced it with a stick of celery that she ended up launching at the back of Frank’s head when he laughed at her.

Asshole.

“Courtesy of David,” Frank says as he pulls an earwig off the monitor next to him. “Updated comms. You’ll be able to hear anyone on our frequency. And he threw a bunch of new tech into the pin-camera—you’re going patriotic this time—so we’ll be able to see everything that you see.”

She scowls, “And I’m sure you and the boys are going to be _very careful_ with all that footage, right?”

“Of course,” he says, just a little too easily, and yeah, his ears are going red.

_Dork_.

He goes for the wallet next, “Here’s your new IDs. David’s got you completely back-stopped. Identity’s iron-clad. I would say some of his best work.”

“Karen _Freebush?_ You’re saying _Karen Matilda Freebush_ is some of David’s best work?”

“Hey, you know that they say about tradecraft. The best covers are the ones you’ve already thought of.”

“You really need to get better at recognizing sarcasm, Castle,” she pushes the wallet back into his chest as another pair of orderlies come after her, this time to take her back to the esthetician from hell to finish rehabbing her eyebrows or something.

—

Later, hours and hours later, sunlight is finally starting to bleed through the high windows of the warehouse.

Karen is _exhausted_.

But instead of letting her get in a 20-minute snooze—she tried curling up in the human-oven thing, but was yanked away to yet another beauty-masquerading-as-torture station—Billy takes Karen back to the curtained off area that this whole nightmare of a night started in, and thrusts a garment bag holding a short, strapless blue dress in the exact same shade as the paint on her nails, into her hands.

Holding it up in front of her, she runs a manicured and moisturized hand down the front of it, taking in the fabric—a far cry from the itchy nightmare she’s been wearing all night—but then her fingers snag against something at the hem on the right side, “What the hell? There’s a hole in this dress.”

“That’s not a hole,” Billy says over his shoulder as he rifles through packages of undergarments in a box next to him.

“I’m pretty sure, as an agent of the FBI, I’m smart enough to know what is considered a hole,” she says, tugging at the hole, mostly to convince herself that she’s not hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

Billy finally glances up, “It’s not a _hole_ , it’s a cutout,” he goes back to whatever he’s rifling for. “It’s _supposed_ to be like that.”

“What? So I can flash _even more_ of my pale thighs to the unsuspecting citizens of San Antonio?”

“Most pageant contestants aren’t as pasty as you are, but since you’re from Vermont, we’re just going to roll with it.”

Her scowl deepens, “I hate everything about this goddamn mission.”

“Yes, we know. We _all_ know.”

She makes an ugly face at the back of his head, but manages to clear it away when he turns back to her with a package in his hand, “So uh,” she frowns back down at the dress. “How is it supposed to stay, you know, _up_?”

Billy’s brows hike to his hairline, and then he glares down, right at her tits.

Oh, like it’s supposed to be _obvious_ or something.

“Jesus Christ,” he scrubs a hand over his face. “When is the last time you’ve worn a strapless dress?”

“At least two decades,” she says, scowling at the undergarments he hands her. “Didn’t stay up the first time either.”

But she feels a little better, because the look on his face tells her that he’s dying _a lot_ on the inside.

As he should.

Billy does give her some privacy to squeeze into the very constrictive undergarments—including some very high-waisted Spanx—and then the dress, and she’s fiddling with the _cutout_ resting just below her hip, trying to get it to lay flat, when he asks her if she’s decent.

“Yeah—er, _yes_.”

He pops his head back around the curtain, and then his arm appears, holding a pair of very strappy blue heels with bright red soles— _holy shit,_ how did he manage to get the discretionary fund to swing for a pair of _Louboutins_ —dangling from his fingers.

“Oh no,” she shakes her head, firm. “I can’t walk in heels.”

“Time to take the training wheels off, Page,” he says with less than zero sympathy.

Glowering a second longer, she snatches the shoes from his grasp, “I hate you,” she mutters. “Now how the hell am I supposed to put these on?”

—

“Unbelievable, what could possibly be taking this long?”

Behind his sunglasses, Frank rolls his eyes at David, who clearly doesn’t remember how long it would take his ex-girlfriend to get ready before _their_ dates.

He, on the other hand, has had plenty of flashbacks throughout this last night to back when he and Maria were still married and managed to wrangle the odd date night out of their busy schedules. Maria liked to take her time.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the capacity to appreciate it, back then.

  
He’s grateful now that they managed to find enough of an equilibrium to remain partners as they co-parent their children, and, by this point—five and a half years down the line—pretty much back to friends, too.

Finally, the massive doors to the hanger grind open, spilling out the fifty-odd attendants and makeup artists and stylists and so on that Billy had the bureau call in to make this all happen.

And there’s Billy, leading the pack and looking as pressed and fresh as he always does. Frank can’t help but glance down at his rumpled tie, the wrinkles in David’s shirt, and how Mahoney is half-asleep in the front of the cab they’ve borrowed from a local company to get Karen and Billy to the pageant’s hotel.

They’re a mess.

But it’s been a long couple of days.

A gust of warm wind blows across the tarmac, and Frank spies a flash of blonde hair behind Billy’s shoulder, and then the man in question is smirking like he knows a secret and—

Holy shit.

Frank pushes off the side of the cab, yanks his sunglasses off, because this is _not_ Karen Page like he’s _ever_ seen.

She’s—shit, she’s _gorgeous_.

Her blonde hair somehow looks _blonder_ and with the way the morning sunlight hits her, it glows almost like a halo, she’s striding out of the hanger with a confidence he’s never seen her carry, in a dress that shows off curves he never knew she had, and she towers over all of them in those heels.

Karen pulls off her sunglasses and the wind whips her hair over her shoulder, exposing the long line of her neck.

And look, he’s seen enough shitty teen movies thanks to that twenty-minute phase Lisa had in fifth grade before she went back to dinosaur and action, blow-em-up type movies to know that the holy-shit-the-frumpy-female-protagonist-is-suddenly-gorgeous-because-she-slapped-some-makeup-on thing is bullshit, because Karen’s always been amazing to him no matter what she looks like, and she’s one of the best agents _he knows,_ has always had his back, even during _The Fuckup,_ but—

“Page? That you?”

And then she scowls, and there’s the Karen Page he knows and—

The Karen Page he knows.

“If you say one goddamn word, I am going to shove a heel through your eye,” she brushes past him. “I’m tired and starving and this is _not_ a good time for jokes Cast- _ack!_ ”

One of Karen’s ankles decides at that very moment to give out, and if it weren’t for his Marines-honed reflexes, she would have gone sprawling on the tarmac. Instead, he manages to swing an arm around her waist and tug her back up, her shoulder colliding with his chest before the rest of her body does, as he helps her reagin her balance.

For a moment, everything stops.

“Uh, Karen-”

“Thanks Frank,” she mutters and carefully slides out of his grip, falls into the back of the cab with another indignant squawk.

He knows he probably looks like someone hit him in the face with a two-by-four, and his ears are probably very, very red, but—

_Damn_.

“Billy,” Frank breaks off, coughs. “Uh, you—”

“Are a miracle-worker, I know,” he claps Frank on the shoulder. “Frankie, you owe me big time,” he’s halfway into the cab when he looks back up with that twist to his mouth that Billy’d use when they were on leave in Europe trying to play wingman in the days before he met Maria. “And you’re welcome.”

—

“ _All right Miss Freebush,_ ” Frank says on comm. as the taxi pulls up to the hotel. _“Operation_ - _”_

Karen clears her throat, pointed, “You best be _very careful_ about what you’re going to say next, or I _will_ tell your daughter about your apparently less than stellar opinion of feminist opportunities.”

Over the comm., she hears Frank cough, imagines his ears going red again, “ _Operation_ Protect The Scholarship Ladies _has commenced._ ”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, flashing a grin at the dark SUV idling on the other side of the parking lot.

They stand in the hotel’s driveway, and Billy’s trying to get the strap of her teeny-tiny purse—barely big enough to carry her wallet, let alone anything important, _like her sidearm_ —to lay _just right_ on the shoulder of her matching, pale-blue blazer, but also so it doesn’t ruin any of the lines of her giant _Vermont_ sash, when they hear, “Mr. Russo?”

Billy glares at her as Mrs. Fisk approaches, “Try not to speak,” he snaps under his breath before his expression does a complete one-eighty. “ _Mrs. Fisk,_ it is so nice to meet you. I’m honored to have the opportunity to coach one of my girls through your pageant.”

Karen wrinkles her nose at the way he says _girl_.

Mrs. Fisk spares a glance to Karen, and says, short, “Hello.”

She smiles, and it is full of so much pain, “Hi.”

At what, she’s not sure, maybe her voice, Mrs. Fisk finally recognizes her, “Miss Page—I mean, _Miss_ _Freebush_.”

Wow, not even five minutes in and her cover’s about to be shot to shit.

_Just keep smiling Karen,_ she thinks to herself. _Just keep smiling._

“Well Mr. Russo,” Mrs. Fisk. “I see you have _quite_ the touch. Karen, you look absolutely perfect, and you are just in time for the orientation breakfast.”

At that, she perks up for the first time in what seems like _days_ , “Food?”

Over the comm., she hears Frank and the guys laughing at her, resists the urge to flip off the van, because she is a _professional undercover agent goddamnit_.

“Yes,” Mrs. Fisk says, a somewhat quizzical look on her face. “There will be food. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.”

Brushing it off, Mrs. Fisk turns back to Billy, “Would you mind taking Miss Freebush’s bags upstairs?” Mrs. Fisk turns to Karen. “Come along, Miss Freebush,” they start walking to the bus that’s supposed to take them from one side of the hotel to another, because who needs to conserve CO2 emissions anyway?

Mrs. Fisk turns back to Billy over her shoulder, “My daughter Amy is in the lobby, she’s handling the room assignments. She’ll be happy to help you.”

Karen glances at Billy over her shoulder too, and shrugs, laughing on the inside at his scowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now I get to sit on a coaching call, run errands, do laundry, oh and maybe start and finish packing for my trip.
> 
> No big deal, or anything.
> 
> More to come soon!


	3. “I’m not a performing monkey in heels.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am an FBI agent,” she snaps. “I’m not a performing monkey in heels.”
> 
> “And no one is just one thing,” Billy fires back. “You’re not just an FBI agent. Or you don’t have to be, if you would just let yourself open up a little more. All you have to speak for your life is sarcasm, a gun, and a serious caffeine addiction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Camp week was ridiculous—I let a bunch of teenagers cover me in mud, among other things—and business has been keeping me super busy, but I needed a bit of a break, so I knocked out this chapter this weekend!
> 
> Welcome to the pageant proceedings!
> 
> (Also, I know I'm posting this chapter during smut week, but no, there is no smut this week. I'll partake next time around!)

So, the bus to Barbie Town is—

There really are no words for this.

The guy in the rumpled suit from Mrs. Fisk’s office, Dex—Ben Poindexter, professional mediocre human, but with no criminal record according to the background check David ran him through—stands at the entrance of the bus with a clipboard in his hand. As Karen walks toward it, she hears him make a crude comment about Miss Texas’ ass that has her hands clenching to fists, but then—

She trips, _again,_ in those goddamn shoes.

Fortunately, there’s a bus—the _Miss United States Express,_ apparently—there to break her fall.

It’s not as nice as when Frank did it, but—

No need to think about that.

_Focus on the mission, Page_.

“Vermont,” Dex says stiffly as she rights herself, brushing her hands down the front of her clingy dress, and she sees him check her name off his clipboard. “Welcome.”

Taking very, _very_ careful steps, Karen climbs onto the bus and finds herself _completely surrounded by pastels._

It’s like the human form of that cafe in Brooklyn, but ten times more ridiculous.

As soon as she’s on the bus, the ladies start whispering about her, which she knew was bound to happen—no matter how much backstopping David could do for _Karen Freebush_ , the pageant community is small, and everyone is supposed to at least have an idea of all the other players in the game.

She just pushes her shoulders back—even if it makes her tower over most of the contestants—and looks around for an empty seat.

“Hey Vermont, this seat’s open.”

Glancing down, she finds an open spot on the little half-sized wooden bench. It’s currently occupied by a pretty redhead wearing a slim-fitting pastel green skirt-suit that only someone with her hair color could ever imagine pulling off, and she sits down next to her with a quiet thanks.

“Sarah Breckenridge, Massachusetts,” the woman introduces, holding out her hand.

Karen shakes it, tries not to grip her hand like she would any of the men she works with, “Karen-“

“Freebush,” Sarah finishes with a smile. “I figured when I didn’t see your picture in the orientation packet. Late entry?”

“Kind of,” she hedges.

Fortunately, before Sarah has a chance to ask any more questions, Mrs. Fisk boards the bus and claps her hands to get everyone’s attention, “Here we go!” She says, brighter than Karen has seen her in either of her two limited interactions with the woman. “How about a little song for the drive? I think you know the one I mean.”

The ladies on the bus start humming in excitement, and Karen glances around, trying to find some semblance of normalcy here, but there is none to be found.

“ _From sea to shining sea, like lady liberty…_ ”

Oh god, this is going to be the longest week _of her life._

_—_

_“Entering Barbie Town_.”

With his equilibrium mostly returned and the rest of the team relocated to home base in the hotel suite five floors up, Frank snorts back a laugh as he watches through Karen’s pin-cam as she’s dragged through the banquet hall jam packed with beautiful women by an unseen arm—likely belonging to that of Miss Massachusetts—if the voice that squealed, “Oh look, there’s our table!” is anything to go by.

The video feed is shaky, probably because Karen’s still unsteady in those heels—and Frank is very much _not_ thinking about that moment on the tarmac, her body pressed against his as he stopped her from falling and—

_For fuck’s sake Castle, focus_.

Then, the feed settles on a waiter passing by with a tray of pastries, and Karen’s hand pops into the view, snagging one off the top, “Watch the carbs, Page,” Frank mutters, but he doesn’t expect a response from her—snarky or otherwise—since she’s surrounded by so many people.

“ _Ladies_ ,” probably-Miss-Breckenridge-from-Massachusetts says to the rest of the table Karen is standing in front of. _“I would like you to meet Karen Freebush, from Vermont,_ ” the camera dips a little, before straightening back to somewhat centered. _“This is Dinah Madani, New York; Marci Stahl, New Hampshire; Jessica Jones, Washington; Trish Walker, from California, and Elektra Natchios, Hawaii_.”

Karen’s earwig picks up sounds of the women chattering while Karen herself focuses with some serious intent on slathering a thick layer of cream cheese on a bagel—maybe Billy _shouldn’t_ have starved her like he did the last couple days—and they hear the distant brewing of an argument between Madani from New York and Natchios from Hawaii, because of something Massachusetts said.

Before it gets too out of hand, they hear Karen pipe up, “ _Uh, excuse me_ ,” she says in that pointed way that Frank knows means she _knows_ she’s interrupting but is pretending that she doesn’t. “ _Question_.”

The camera turns so they see Miss Natchios arch a delicate brow in response.

“ _In Hawaii, don’t you use ‘aloha’ for ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’_?”

“ _Yes, and?_ ”

“ _So, if you’re on the phone with somebody and they won’t stop talking, how do you get them off? Because if you say, “Okay, take care, aloha.”,don’t they just—start all over again_?”

Not that he doesn’t like listening to women talk—to this day, sitting on the outskirts of Maria’s conversations with Lisa about life or school or whatever fad is tearing her way through her little friend group are some of his favorite things, but—Frank is dying.

And if he’s dying just listening to the conversations going on around Karen—and if he knows his partner, which he does—he knows she must be resisting the urge to stab herself in the eye with her fork.

From the feed, they see Miss Natchios’ stare narrow to Karen like she’s trying to rip into her mind, but then Miss Breckenridge starts laughing, diffusing the tension that fell around the table.

“ _Well,_ ” Karen mutters before taking another bite from her bagel. “ _At least someone thinks I’m funny_.”

Shaking his head, Frank presses the call button on her comm., “Page,” no response. “Page, do you copy?”

—

“ _Check one—check one-tw_ —“

The microphone shrieks as Mrs. Fisk none-to-gently shoves Dex out of the way and takes his place behind the podium, “Thank you,” Mrs. Fisk says, pausing for applause. “For the last two decades, it has been my honor to serve as director of this pageant, and I know that this year is going to be our most exciting event ever!”

More applause, and Karen claps her hand against the side of the palm holding her half-eaten bagel.

“After the rehearsal and the photoshoot, you will be able to settle into your rooms. Then tomorrow, we will begin the preliminaries, hosted by our Master of Ceremonies and American institution, Foggy Nelson!”

There’s even more applause as Foggy stands from the head table, and then hugs Mrs. Fisk before replacing her behind the podium, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” turning to snag a sip from her water glass, Karen’s brow ticks toward her hairline when she sees Trish from California pop up to clap from her feet.

“Isn’t she ravishing?” Foggy gushes. “How _does_ she do it?”

The rest of the contestants laugh, and Foggy pauses before going on, “And even though I’ll be stepping down and moving on to other opportunities next season,” a chorus of _awes_ echoes throughout the banquet hall. “Don’t cry for me—Alabama!”

“That’s so sad,” Sarah says.

“Oh, he’s not stepping down,” Trish leans across the table to whisper, and Karen sits back a little so she can hear better. “I ran into him this morning and the poor man spilled the whole thing. They’re firing him. Apparently they’re looking for someone younger and hotter.”

Next to Trish, Jessica snorts, “I hope it’s Ricky Martin.”

Karen is about ninety-nine percent sure she’s being sarcastic.

Even so—it’s good information to have, especially since both Mrs. Fisk and Foggy failed to mentioned that to her and Frank during their meeting earlier that week.

Interesting.

And then, Karen’s comm. makes an ear-splitting screech that sears through her head.

“ _Jesus Christ! Argh!_ ”

—

Being in a beauty pageant is _exhausting._

There’s photo shoots, dance classes—which did feel just a little like kickboxing, but _not enough_ for her to feel as comfortable as she would have liked—stage rehearsals, _another_ photo shoot, shuttling to _another_ stage rehearsal, endless stretches of pointless waiting in small, humid rooms as the pageant organizers around them prepare for one event after another.

Karen Page— _Karen Freebush_ , whoever the hell she is right now—is _tired_.

All she wants is to sleep for a week.

Or at least through the night.

Fortunately, her roommate—the intimidatingly gorgeous Marci Stahl of New Hampshire—falls at least halfway to dreamland under her face mask and noise-cancelling headphones before Karen even finishes brushing her teeth. It means she doesn’t need to put up with endless minutes of awkward girly small talk, or whatever it is women do when sharing rooms at pageants.

Finally out of the constricting dress and especially those _Spanx_ , Karen bundles into the oversized hotel bathrobe and is running a comb through her hair when she hears the careful knock on the door of the hotel room.

Her mouth twitches into a frown, and she waddles across the room on sore feet—spending most of the day either on her feet or in those ridiculous high heels for most of the day has made walking, well, _weird_ —to the door. Through the peephole, she sees Sarah, her hair done up in curlers, on the other side of the door.

Letting her head fall to the door with a gentle _thunk_ , Karen takes a deep breath before opening the door.

—

“Stop creeping in on Karen’s room,” Frank grumbles at David as he tosses a file folder on top of the haphazard pile on the bed next to him.

He’s still smarting a little from the tech screw-up from earlier that day.

It could have been a _huge_ problem for them, had it not been for Karen’s quick thinking and her uncharacteristic—for her non-Karen Freebush persona, at least—desires for pre-meal prayer, her position at the pageant would be much more tenuous than it already is.

They _need_ this to go smoothly.

And other than the obvious fact that they need to take out The Citizen before he sets off another bomb, they need to do it in a way that doesn’t actually put Karen’s life in jeopardy.

This is his op—he can’t let that happen.

At the desk crammed on the other side of the room, David scoffs, but doesn’t look away from the monitor feeding the mini-cam installed in Karen’s room, which shows Karen and Miss Massachusetts sitting on Karen’s bed and cheersing over glasses of something Sarah poured out of a thermos, “I’m not creeping,” he says around the pen in his mouth as he taps on the keyboard. “I’m investigating the other ladies in the pageant. You know, like I’m supposed to do for _my job_.”

“ _Investigating_ the definitely-innocent-because-she’s already-been-cleared Sarah Breckenridge? _Sure_ Micro.”

“Fuck off, Castle.”

Shaking his head, Frank was about to retort when his phone buzzes. He ignores the unread messages from Maria and the kids—he’ll get to them before he goes to sleep, or at least at some point before they wake up tomorrow morning—and opens the text from Billy, “Gotta go,” he says, looking around for his shoes. “Stop being a goddamn creep and check to see if there’s any new chatter.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

—

“You know,” Sarah says around another sip of _the absolute worst_ hot chocolate Karen has ever had the misfortune to try. “The way you handled that argument this morning at orientation, _aloha-aloha_ —you’re so clever, it’s why you’re going to win.”

Karen blinks.

She knows she’s guaranteed a spot in the top-five for security reasons, but— _to actually win_?

No way.

That’s never going to happen.

Just wait until Sarah sees her try to walk the runway in high heels.

Hoping her smile isn’t as strained as she feels it is, she thanks her and pretends to take another sip of hot chocolate.

“So let me guess,” Sarah goes on, and sheesh, can this woman just let her go to bed? This isn’t some goddamned sleepover. “You’re going to tell jokes for your talent?”

Uh—her sense of humor isn’t exactly fit-to-print.

Also— _what talent_?

“Ah, you know,” she tries not to stumble, which is a lot easier without her entire team in her ear. “It’s kind of a surprise.”

And it will be until Billy tells her what she’s going to do.

“What about you?” Because she will do _anything_ to get the subject off of her.

Sarah brightens, “Baton twirling, actually!”

“That’s a thing?”

Oh shit, she really need to work on her filter when she’s exhausted, “I mean,” she stumbles when Sarah’s face falls. “That’s a really cool thing.”

“It really can be an art, if you do it well,” she sounds like someone knocked half of her universe of kilter, and despite the fact that Karen really does think baton twirling is kind of stupid, she feels bad. Sometimes, people will even set their batons on fire.”

Now that sounds _so freaking cool_.

“You’re doing that, right?”

Eyes wide, she shakes her head, which makes the curlers in her hair rattle against one another, “Oh, I wish I could, but no. Just your regular dance. I’ve got it down pretty solid, already won a few awards in some other competitions, but no fire. It’s just a little ostentatious, you know?”

Isn’t everything about pageants ostentatious?

“Look Sarah, fire or no fire, I think you have as good a chance as any to win,” Karen says, her opinion completely inexpert, but if here’s one thing she does know, it’s people, and this person actually cares about this competition. “You obviously believe enough in yourself to have gotten this far, right? You went from one of hundreds of women to one of just fifty. That’s a big deal.”

Sarah gets this soft, borderline soppy look on her face, “Oh Karen, you’re just so nice. That’s why you’re going to win.”

“ _Oh that is it!_ ”

Both women startle as Marci rips off her headphones, pushes up her eye mask and leans up on her elbows, “I am trying to get into my REM cycle over here!”

Karen winces, because she knows the feeling, and Sarah mouths an apology before scuttling off the bed and out of the room.

With Marci back to sleep, Karen strips off her robe, revealing the _one hundred precent unnecessary_ nightgown she has to wear to sleep for her cover—though why she couldn’t just sleep in her usual tank-top and no-pants is completely beyond her—she pulls the covers back, stacks her pillows the way she likes, and then slides into bed.

_Finally._

And then, she hears the tapping.

No.

_Tap, tap, tap._

“ _This is_ not _happening_ ,” she whines as she yanks the covers back and stalks out of bed toward the offending noise, grabbing the other, shorter robe that Billy packed for her, to cover up her ridiculously low-cut sleepwear.

Pushing the curtains aside, she scowls at the side of Frank’s head, warped a little by the glass and backlit with a blue glow from the pool behind him. It makes him look a little otherworldly, and with the late hour and the lack of food, it makes something deep inside her twist with a sort of fondness she usually manages to tamp down when she’s around him.

Karen blinks back into reality.

Now is _not_ the time.

She pushes the sliding glass door open, “ _What?_ ”

“You took your earpiece out,” he admonishes, and never mind, Karen wants to _strangle him_. “Billy needs you.”

Scratch that, she wants to _strangle them both_.

“Now?” Karen hisses, because the last thing she needs is to wake her roommate, _again_. “Frank, I haven’t slept in _two days!_ ”

Frank looks entirely unsympathetic, and sure, he’s probably gotten as much sleep as she has, but also _not the point_ , “I’ll give you your sidearm back,” he bribes.

Ugh, fine.

“You better.”

—

“You don’t walk Karen, you _float_ ,” Billy says as Karen tries to navigate the curved staircase while wearing a ridiculous beaded evening gown—a halter-neck in deep blue, with the _weirdest_ front slit she’s ever seen on a dress—and another pair of too-high, high heels. “Gently descending, you don’t look down—go back up!”

“Oh fine!” She grumbles and turns back up the stairs.

“Do it again, never ever look down, okay?” How the fuck is she supposed to walk in these things without _looking down._ “Thighs touching—touching, not _clenching_.”

She groans and staggers before catching her balance again on the railing, “I’m not clenching!”

Billy rubs a hand over his face, and even though Karen _knows_ he’s as exhausted as she is, he sure as hell doesn’t look like it, the lucky bastard, “There is a gap between your knees and your calves, your calves and your ankles,” he says, gesturing to those points as she tries to stand under her own power.

Looking down, her disheveled hair falls over her shoulder, and she bats it back, “Right now, there’s massive a gap between my brain and my spinal cord, all right?” She turns back toward the top of the staircase, but then stops short and turns back. “Here, take these.”

Karen leans down and pulls her gun from her thigh holster and plops it in Billy’s hand, followed by two extra magazines, the wrap around her right thigh, a pair of standard-issue handcuffs, her stun-gun, a folded knife, and then the wrap around her other thigh. Patting the pile on his hands—and sending a prayer that she gets them back after this torture session, Karen turns back up the stairs again.

“What, no humvee?”

With an exaggerated flip, she sends her hair back over her shoulder, “That would be in my other dress.”

“By the way, what are you planning to for your talent?” He asks over his shoulder as he takes the bundle in his arms and drops it on a nearby worktable. “Sing? Dance? Drink a gallon of scalding espresso in one go?”

Throwing her arms back out, Karen tips her chin up and tries tackling the stairs again, without, you know, actually tackling said stairs, “I will do whatever you want me to, Yoda.”

“Damnit.”

At that very uncharacteristic curse, she perks up—or well, down—just in time to see Billy rush off, “Frankie!” He shouts. “Frankie, this woman has no talent!”

Frank, who has been _guarding_ Craft Services while the other agents clear the rest of the building, looks up from his—damnit, a donut, the lucky bastard, “Billy, you don’t have to shout it out right in front of her.”

But Billy Russo will not be placated.

“I was not told to provide a talent, and I am certainly not equipped to do so before sunrise!”

While they’re distracted, Karen snags a donut off the table for herself—even though the one on top is a plain unglazed cake donut—but without looking away from Frank, Billy yanks it from her grip and shoves a giant carrot stick in its place.

Curses.

She takes a bite off the top in protest, and also because it feels like her stomach is going to cave in on itself she’s so damn hungry.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I am saying that tomorrow, she will have nothing to do but convert oxygen into carbon dioxide on the regional-national preliminary live stream, and there is nothing I can do to help that!”

Frank waves a hand in Karen’s direction, “You also said you couldn’t make her beautiful in two days, but look at her now! Look how gorgeous she is.”

Going still before she can take another in-protest bite out of her carrot stick, Karen turns her wide-eyed gaze up to Frank, and she has no idea what kind of look is on Billy’s face, but whatever it is makes Frank really think about what he just said, “You know,” he tacks on way too quickly. “Compared to he car-wreck she was before.”

He ducks his head down to take a sip of coffee, and even though it’s kind of dark in their corner of backstage, Karen _totally_ sees his ears go red.

_Interesting_.

“My duties are clearly stated in the contract _you_ gave me,” Billy goes on, but he walks away from the table, drawing Frank after him, so—

It’s donut time.

Because damnit she deserves it after the week she’s had.

“Listen to me Russo,” Frank grumbles, and oh, throwing out the last names, are we? “You’re going to figure out a talent for her by morning, or-“

“Don’t you try to order me around, Castle,” Billy breaks in. “We’re not in the Marines anymore and you sure as shit never out-ranked me back then. And if you think you can—”

“Hey, hey, timeout,” Karen steps between them, speaking with her hands, even if it means waving the half-chewed stick of carrot around. “There’s something I know how to do. I haven’t done it since my EOD elective rotation back at Quantico, but it’s just like riding a bike.“

Turning his scowl in her direction, Billy shoves his pointer finger in her face, “You are not dismantling a live bomb on stage!”

“Did I say I was going to do that?” She snaps and rolls her eyes at both of them. “It’ll be fine. I just need someone to run and pick up a couple things from the store. Okay? Okay. Great. Crisis averted.”

She steps past them, ready to head back to the dressing room and enjoy her well-earned contraband when Billy clears his throat, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees him holding a hand out, “Page? The donuts, please.”

Rolling her eyes, she pulls the donut that’s squished up between the front of her dress and her left boob, and hands it back to him, takes another half-step away.

“And the other?”

She scows up in the direction of the ceiling, _knows_ Frank is laughing at her—even if she can’t see his stupid face—and hands off the donut hiding in the right-side cup of her bra, “Fine.”

Leaving the two banes of her existence behind her, Karen stalks off toward the dressing area with as much of her remaining dignity that she can muster, when one of the ATF agents holding Max—her favorite bomb-sniffing dog that they flew out from New York because he is the best bomb sniffing dog there is, yes he is—stops short, and the dog sits down and starts whining at her thighs.

“Really?” She mutters down at the big-eyed pit-bull. “Really Max? Traitor.”

With another grumble, she pulls out the donut she jammed back into her thigh holster and tosses it in Frank and Billy’s direction.

“I hate everything.”

—

It’s nearly sunrise, the sky turning from black to pale gray, by the time Billy lets Frank take Karen back to the hotel.

“Did I tell you they fired Nelson?” Karen asks around a jaw-cracking yawn as they round the pool, her back in her bathrobe and shuffling over the stone deck in her hotel slippers.

A much-needed relief after _another_ three hours in heels.

“I got it, I got it,” he nudges her with his elbow. “You just focus on being the best Karen Freebush you can be, all right?“

Yawning again, she flaps a hand in acknowledgment before pushing her hair out of the way when the wind picks back up.

“By the way,” Frank says, pitching his voice down a little, like he does when he wants her to know he’s not fucking with her. “You are doing a great job. I thought the evening gown looked—I mean—I totally bought it—”

He breaks off, just so damn bashful Karen can barely stand it, “Well, I know you think I’m gorgeous,” she teases, because she can’t not.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him duck his head, and his ears go dark again even as he scoffs, “I don’t-”

Karen scoffs right back, “Excuse me, but you said those words, in basically that order, like an hour ago. Do I need to call Billy and get him to back me up? He’s pissed at you right now, so you know he will. You totally think I’m _gorgeous_.”

“I think Ellison is more feminine than you,” he fires back.

But those ears of his are _bright red_.

“Yeah, yeah, but you _also_ think _I’m_ gorgeous,” she says, about to really go all-in on the teasing because it’s late and she has even less of a filter now than she did a few hours ago sharing that nasty hot chocolate with Sarah, and it’s just the two of them at that hour of the night where it’s not even nighttime anymore and it’s like there the only ones around, even at this jam-packed hotel. “And you want to—“

Before she can finish, Frank steps up into her space, eyes locked as he tips his forehead against hers, nudging gently.

Karen freezes in place as the wind whips around them, but she can’t bring herself to move, to speak, to even look away.

Then, between one gust of wind and another, Frank blinks and steps back, “Good night Karen.”

And he’s gone.

Scowling at his retreating back, Karen sighs, shakes her head.

They were definitely almost on the verge of _something,_ like they have been since, well, pretty much since they _met_.

Damnit.

—

Later that morning—but certainly not late enough considering the lack of sleep she’s been getting all damn week—Karen shuffles into the dressing room, dodging sharp elbows and flailing limbs from the forty-nine other ladies and the pageant staff as they all prep for the morning preliminary session out at the Alamo Dome.

She has a steaming cup of tar-like black coffee in hand, and she prays that it’s going to be enough for her to get through the day.

Marci and Sarah are getting ready in front of the vanities on the far side of the curtained-off area, and Karen shuffles into the empty chair to Sarah’s right.

“Karen, you look so tired,” Sarah says as she puts down the curling iron. “Jet lag?”

Before she can come up with a response, Marci chimes in.

“Oh, she had a busy night,” she says with a tone that isn’t exactly attacking, but also isn’t the nicest tone Karen’s ever heard—unlike Sarah, Marci Stahl is definitely not competing in this pageant to make friends. “I saw that gentleman stop by the room.”

“Gentleman?” Sarah asks, which of course draws the attention of not just Elektra from Hawaii, but Jessica from Washington and Dinah from New York.

“That’s not allowed,” Elektra says like she’s supposed to just _know that_. “No _men_ in the room.”

“Well things are different here than they are on the mainland, Five-O,” Jessica snaps, her tone indicating that it is also way too early for sane people to be conscious.

Clad in some really fancy and overly complicated underthings, Dinah pushes through the crowd, a cup of coffee in her own hand as she makes Elektra take a step back with the wave of one expertly manicured hand, “Now, now, let’s just hear what she has to say,” she looks at Karen, dark-eyed gaze sharp. “Are you sleeping with a judge?”

A part of her wishes she could tell the laughter in her ear to go fuck themselves.

“Oh, _that guy_?” She takes a sip of coffee, prays that it’ll work faster so she can talk her way out of this goddamn mess that is her life. “No, no. I-I was uh, I was dating him for a while, because he told me he had an incurable disease.”

  
The ladies echo a chorus of, “ _Oh_ ,” and Karen wants to die, but also a part of her is glad Frank is in the room somewhere upstairs listening to her call him stupid.

Because the shit he pulled this morning?

_Stupid_.

She presses on.

“I didn’t realize it was stupidity.”

The ladies laugh, and okay, crisis averted.

Hopefully, the day will get better.

—

**Back in New York**

“Mom, Uncle Curtis! Come here real quick!”

Maria Castle looks up from the coffee she was in the middle of preparing for herself and Curtis, who had come over to spend the day since he’s been on medical leave and all his other friends are off on whatever classified assignment they’ve been tasked to.

Such is the life of someone adjacent to the FBI.

You never know anything until it’s over.

Curtis, whose arm is still in a sling—from the incident that Frank refused to tell her much about, just that it was an _absolute fuckup_ —looks up at Maria and shrugs with his good shoulder as he eases himself off the chair in the breakfast nook, leads the way into the living room where Lisa is supposed to be doing her homework.

And where they find that Lisa is definitely _not_ doing her homework, instead is poking around on the laptop Frank gave her for her last birthday.

But before Maria has the chance to admonish her for breaking house rules, Lisa turns to them, “I already finished my homework, promise,” she says. “You _have_ to watch this.”

“What is it, kiddo?” Curtis asks as he sits down in the chair next to her, because he’s really not supposed to be on his feet so soon after being released from the hospital.

Lisa looks up at him with wide eyes, confused about whatever it is she’s seen, and Maria prays it’s not another version of the Tide Pods challenge, or whatever it is stupid teenagers have been getting up to these days.

Parenting a teenager is _not_ easy.

“It’s, uh,” she glances down at the computer for a second before turning so Maria can see she’s got a YouTube video queued up. “I think Agent Page is competing in the Miss United States Pageant in Texas.”

“What?” Maria can’t help but blurt.

Lisa nods with her chin at the computer, “I’ve had like five people forward me this viral video about some pageant contestant going ham on someone in the audience during the preliminaries this morning. I just watched it, and I’m like—a hundred percent sure it’s Agent Page. Does that mean dad’s there with her?”

Sharing a look with Curtis for a second, Maria turns back to Lisa, “Why don’t you go check in on your brother, see if he’s finished with his homework?”

  
Even though she knows it’s a dismissal so they adults can talk without censoring themsevles, Lisa leaves without much complaint.

Once she’s gone, Maria nods with her chin at the computer, “You know what this is about?”

Curtis shakes his head, “On leave. I’m as in the dark as you are.”

There’s really nothing else to do but watch the clip.

The camera-work is shaky, definitely taken by someone in the crowd, rather than the official pageant live-stream, but it’s clear that it _is_ Karen standing on the stage, wearing a shimmering white coat, a painfully short skirt and towering high heels. She’s giving some sort of demo that looks straight out of the science lab, and not seconds after she adds the contents of one flask to the other, it starts bubbling up and shooting in a colorful rainbow in front of her.

That’s the standard pageant nonsense.

But then, Karen’s flying off stage, and the camera jerks before showing her landing on top of someone in the crowd—before the clip ends, Maria sees that Billy is _definitely_ standing in the background, next to a woman who looks vaguely familiar, but she can’t place it.

“I don’t understand what just happened,” Maria says as she rewinds the video, stopping it on a still of Karen who looks—

Well, she looks _amazing_ , actually.

Maria has never seen Karen look this good, even in the ridiculously sparkly get-up.

“I guess this explains why Billy texted the other night complaining that Frank still doesn’t know to reconcile with his feelings,” Maria mutters as she lets the video go again, stopping right after Karen launched herself off the stage and on Billy’s scandalized expression.

She takes a screenshot and sends it to herself, because one day, it’s going to make for great blackmail material.

Curtis looks up at her with a questioning hum, “Uh—what?”

Flipping her phone out of her back pocket, Maria unlocks it and shows him the texts.

“Jesus Christ,” Curtis mutters, swiping his palm over his face. “I don’t think I want to know what they’re all getting up to down there.”

Maria snorts, “I do,” she takes her phone back. “Let’s see what Billy has to say, since Frank has yet to actually text me back.”

—

**San Antonio**

So, suffice it to say, the day did not get better.

The first day of pageant preliminaries did _not_ go well at all.

After the mess of the morning—which Karen insists she was in the right about, because what kind of idiot reaches for anything anywhere near his gun in plain view in the middle of a crowded public event—and Mrs. Fisk reaming her a new asshole in the privacy of one of the nicer suites in the hotel, Karen tried to go off to her room to sleep off the embarrassment and utter misery of the last few days, but—

_No_.

Back to more fun times with Billy Russo.

“The interview,” he says as he heaves a neon pink chair on top of a small circular platform, and Karen stands in yet another evening gown—this one flimsy and a pale pink that washes her out—trying with every fiber of her being not to pass out where she stands. “Is the single most important part of the pageant. It accounts for thirty-percent of your total score.”

“And what’s the other seventy percent?” She grumbles and heaves herself up into the chair. “Cleavage?”

Billy decides to ignore her, which is probably the best route to take, all things considered.

“Hands folded, ankles crossed, neck up, and remember to _smile,_ ” he says, getting in her face and Karen _wishes_ she could break his nose. _“_ Smilers wear a crown, losers wear a frown.”

“I would _so_ love to hurt you right now,” she grumbles to his back as he walks over to the table where his test questions are resting.

He turns back to her, draws an exaggerated grin on his face, “As long as you _smile_.”

Yawning again, Karen perks back up when Billy sits down on a stool and looks down at the cards in his hands, “Now, why is Vermont called The Green Mountain State?”

“Because saying ‘we have the least populous state capitol in the U.S.’ is too long to fit on a license plate?”

Billy’s scowl turns into a glare, “You know, I don’t appreciate your selfishness and immaturity when I am working as hard as I am.”

She yawns again, “What is the difference?” She slouches in her seat, just to see him scowl, but mostly because she’s so fucking exhausted. “It’s fixed, I’m in the top five. Yay me, can I just go to bed?”

“You have to at least have some pride in your presentation,” Billy drops the cards, dark eyes intent on her. “In _yourself_.”

What does that even have to do with anything?

“I am an FBI agent,” she snaps. “I’m not a performing monkey in heels.”

“And no one is just one thing,” he fires back. “You’re not _just_ an FBI agent. Or you don’t have to be, if you would just let yourself open up a little more. All you have to speak for your life is sarcasm, a gun, and a serious caffeine addiction.”

Oh, is this therapy now?

If she wanted to get her head shrunk, she’d go talk to the actual FBI-vetted therapists.

“You know what?” She pushes off the chair and stumbles off the podium. “We are done. _I_ am done with this.”

She walks off, and Billy follows after her, “You can’t just _leave_ Page. We have work to do.”

Whirling on him, she places a hand to her thigh where her sidearm is, and that’s enough to get Billy to stop short, “No, _I am done_ ,” she mutters, ice in her tone. “Don’t follow me.”

He doesn’t.

As she heads toward the loading bay where the cars are, she whips her sash off and positions the camera in front of her face, “Micro, give me a twenty on Castle, right now.”

“ _He’s at the pool._ ”

Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Karen’s talent, this was an actual talent from the 2016 Miss Vermont for the Miss America pageant, and I couldn’t resist adapting it for this fic. You can watch the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZvN4h_5W30
> 
> Guess what's coming next chapter.....
> 
> THE SWIMSUIT COMPETITION. 
> 
> Get ready y'all!


	4. “Sir, permission to stay behind with a small contingent of agents to investigate Mrs. Fisk.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing?”
> 
> “I can’t do girl talk with a guy in my head. I can barely do girl talk with me in my head.”
> 
> Which he knows, considering every single awkward conversation she’s ever had with his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there was a bit of a delay on this, but things got crazy with the biz, which is, you know, what happens when you’re building a business from the ground up. I like delays as much as you all, but I also like having a place to live in and to be able to afford to eat, so…yeah.
> 
> Growing a business is not for the faint of heart, but it’s exactly what I want to be doing with my life. I’m not meant to work in an office, you guys.
> 
> And FYI there are some references to sexual assault in this chapter. No worse than what happened in MC movie canon, but just so you know.

Stalking barefoot across the pool deck, Karen picks out Frank’s shadowed form through her red-soaked gaze, his back to her as his body cuts a line toward the deep end of the pool.

For all that he gives Navy guys shit for, well, being in the Navy, Karen knows Frank gets into this zone whenever he’s in the pool doing laps, like it’s the only time when his mind quiets enough that he can be with his own thoughts.

_Lucky him._

She hasn’t had a moment with her own thoughts in days.

One of the other hotel guests must have left the conveniently-placed Nerf football that Karen finds resting on one of the loungers. She grabs it and heaves it in Frank’s direction, because shouting his name in the middle of the hotel property isn’t really helpful for her cover.

Inability to focus due to starvation aside, the ball glances off his shoulder, startling him out of his next stroke.

“Karen?” He pushes his goggles up his forehead, swipes a hand across his face to clear the water streaming down from his hair.

It is a really good look, and she is _not_ thinking about it.

Not with how pissed she is.

“I quit Frank,” she blurts before she can gather her thoughts, because the entire short drive over was filled with a mantra of _just find Frank, just find Frank, just find Frank_ , and not so much thinking outside of that. “I’m out. Done. I can’t do this anymore.”

And it’s true.

She can’t.

Turning, she makes toward her room to pack her things and then disappear of the face of the goddamn planet because she sure as shit has no future in the FBI after all this, when Frank calls her name again, “Karen stop,” he sputters as he moves closer to the side of the pool she’s standing by. “Hold on a second. What’s going on?”

“I said what I said,” and why isn’t he understanding this? She’s speaking plain English. “ _I quit_. You got the wrong girl.”

Frank scrubs his hand through his hair, making it stick up in a hundred different directions, “Page, I do not need this right now. Not when I have Ellison coming down to hand my ass to me.”

What?

“You think he’s really here for _your_ ass? You and I both know it’s mine he’s going to rip into. The least he can do is fire me over the phone,” she grouses, throwing her arms in the air as she paces in a little irritated circle. “Just put me out of my goddamn misery already. I’m totally screwing up in there! I don’t even feel like a real agent anymore. I’ve got Billy trying to shrink my head, I’ve barely eaten, and I’m stuck flouncing around in these ridiculous flimsy pieces of nonsense!”

Running a hand through her hair, she plops down on the lounger and props her elbows on her knees, “I just want to do my job, but everywhere I turn, I have people in my ear driving me nuts, and I’m lost.”

Frank makes his way over to the side of the pool, props his arms on the deck, “Come on Karen, I’ve been waiting five years for my own op,” he locks eyes with her, and try as she might, she can’t bring herself to look away. “Do you really think I’d blow it on the wrong girl? You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“No, no,” she waves a hand in dismissal. “I know you only picked me because I look half-decent in a bikini and am not on maternity leave, but-“

He cuts her off, “That’s why they _let_ me pick you. Do you know _why_ I picked you?”

“Lost a bet with David.”

Frank gives her a look, and sue her for retreating to her shitty sense of humor when she’s stressed, “Come on, you think I’m going to run my first op without _my partner_? I just had to get creative about it because of The Fuckup,” she scowls, because this is _not_ the time to remind her about The Fuckup. “You’re smart and you don’t take anyone’s shit, not even mine. You’re goddamn hilarious, you’re easy to talk to when you’re caffeinated, just give yourself a break. Cut Billy and the other pageant ladies some slack. Focus more on being the _you_ that I know than on pretending to be some perfect pageant contestant, and they’re going to love you.”

Looking down at him, Karen props her chin on her palm.

Goddamn she hates it when he pulls that innocent, affirming shit with her.

It always make her feel like they’re having a conversation without being entirely honest with each other, which as a rule, they _don’t_ do.

And this really isn’t the right time for any of that, not with this mission bearing down on her shoulders as heavily as it is.

“So? What do you say?”

Karen sighs.

Okay.

He wins.

“All right, I won’t let you down.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and even in the dimness, she can see his eyes light up, “Good. I’m glad, Karen.”

“I mean, I might totally fuck it up,” she says, and try as she might to stay serious, she finds herself smiling right back at him. “But I’ll really try not to.”

Frank shakes his head, and the next thing she knows, he’s striking out, hand wrapping tight around her wrist, “Oh no, no, no no, not in the dress!” she tries to lean back, out of his grasp, but Frank uses the leverage from the lip of the pool to his advantage and pulls her right off the lounger, sending her head-first into the water. “Gah! Frank!”

The world turns blue and Karen inhales chlorinated water through her nose before she manages to resurface. Sputtering for breath, she shoves tendrils of wet hair off her face to the low sound of Frank’s laughter. Her soaked dress floats around her in the water, tangling around her legs.

“Oh, Billy is going to _kill you_ ,” she swipes the back of her wrist over her nose. “You’re in big trouble!”

“Why? You fell!” He says around another laugh.

Now, Karen has been in the water with her clothes before, but there is a far cry between being in the water in a pair of slacks and being in the water in what’s probably a _very expensive_ evening gown that the bureau’s footing the bill on. She scoffs and tries to cut through the water toward the steps in the shallow end, because lifting herself out of the pool is just not going to happen.

It’s not easy to make a dramatic and pointed exit out of a swimming pool, but she’s sure as shit going to try.

But since the are in the middle of the pool, and this is probably going to take a while, Frank swims over and slings an arm around her waist, “You are a goddamn mess, Page,” he says, fond.

“I’m sorry, whose fault was that again?” She snipes back, but does curl an arm over his shoulders to stay upright as he helps her cut through the water.

It’s a—

It’s a lot of bare skin, pressed up against her side.

And okay, she knows what Frank looks like shitless, _obviously_ , because they’ve worked in close quarters for years, and she’s crashed on his couch and he on hers more than once. But this is a lot, all up close, and it’s been a long week and she really didn’t need to know _right now_ how Frank’s eye lashes look when they’re clumped with water and inches away from hers.

“You know,” he says, voice a low rumble through his chest. “You look good wet.”

That little shit.

Karen scowls, jumping up for better leverage as she shoves his head underwater, “Shut up!”

—

The next day, of course, brings the one event Karen has been dreading since she first found out she had to go undercover in the pageant.

It’s time for the swimsuit competition.

_Damnit_.

With a towel wrapped firmly around her shoulders in attempt to hide the way her body glows blinding white under the backstage fluorescents, Karen sneaks around a rack of costumes and stops in front of the mirror. She opens the towel, takes in the ridiculousness she’s been hiding, and then snaps it shut again.

This is going to suck.

Somehow, through the din of the other pageant ladies putting the finishing touches on their own spandex monstrosities, she hears the distinct _gliding_ gait that belongs to Billy, and when she whirls around she sees him holding a pair of—

Are those chicken cutlets?

“That cannot possibly be sanitary.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but it looks like last night’s argument has been forgiven, if not forgotten, “They’re inserts. For your top.”

She gapes at him.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Trust me on this,” Billy fires back, ten tons of snark in his tone. “You need them.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean what I said I mean,” Billy holds the weird, flesh-colored cups up again. “Do you need me to put them in for you?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Karen swipes one of the inserts out of his outstretched hand and turns back around to put it in her top with help from the mirror, but when she glances down she sees the little American flag pin on her Vermont sash and—

Yeah, how about not?

Turning so she doesn’t flash all of her colleagues—and most of the other women backstage—Karen shoves the first into place while somehow managing to keep her towel up over her shoulders. Once they’re in and secure, Karen looks down at her new and improved cleavage, and—

Well, that certainly explains the woman from the video.

“I mean,” she mutters, tugging at one of the cups to smooth out a wrinkle. “I guess I could get used to this.”

Billy snorts, and holds up a tube of—

“Really?” She snatches it from his hand. “Hemorrhoid cream? They can’t possibly be looking _that_ closely at my ass.”

“It’s for the bags under your eyes.”

“Oh. No shit,” she spins the cap and turns back to the mirror while Billy produces an oversized can of hairspray from—well, somewhere on his person, but Karen can’t be sure where, especially considered how slim-fitting his suit is. “Okay, finally, something I recog- _what the hell are you doing?_ ”

Because Billy Russo just sprayed half the can _on her ass_.

He looks up at her from the crouched position he’s in, “It stops the suit from riding up.”

“ _Up where_?” He’s in _such a great position_ for her to shove her heel-clad foot in his face.

He makes a wordless gesture in the direction of the ceiling. “Just _up_.”

Karen tugs the towel tighter over her shoulder, “That is _enough_ from you!”

“You are _the most difficult_ client I have ever had to endure!”

“Oh, because I can see how hard all of this, how embarrassing all of this is, _for you_ ,” she grumbles and turns back to the mirror, but when she does, she catches sight of Elektra behind her, talking to her coach, who is—

Blind.

A blind pageant coach?

Now she’s seen everything.

But also—

“Why do I have to wear the bikini?” She snarls. “ _Elektra_ doesn’t have to wear the bikini, and she’s from _Hawaii_! This is bullshit!”

Billy shrugs as he turns her back around, “What do you mean? Frankie said you were excited about the bikini.”

Pushing his hands off her shoulders and spinning back around to the mirror, Karen turns her glare back to the camera pinned to her sash, “Frank Castle, _you are a dead man_ ,” she hisses between her teeth.

The comm. in her ear is silent, but there’s really nothing Frank can say to make this okay.

He is _so dead_.

“Look Karen,” Billy turns her back around, _again_ , and she’s getting dizzy with all this twirling. “If you can do this, you can convince _anyone_ that you belong here. Everything that happened yesterday will completely disappear.”

“Yeah, because they’re going to end up with trauma thanks to the reflection of the stage lights _off my thighs_.”

One of the stagehands calls for the ladies to take their places, and Karen goes pale, “Billy, you don’t understand, I have been avoiding an experience like this _my entire life_ ,” she totally has enough time to convince him to let her change into something with more coverage. “I really should be wearing a miu-miu.”

Hands on her shoulders, he pushes her toward the hallway that leads to the outdoor stage, “Just achieve a zen-like state. Listen to your breathing, feel your heartbeat, think of the Dalai Lama,” he snatches the towel off her shoulders, propelling her forward with a shove to the back of her head. “And for the love of god, don’t trip!”

Karen stumbles forward in her strappy, pale-blue bikini—which matches both the dress she wore to orientation _and_ her nails—and falls in with the rest of the contestants, who are all wearing bathing suits in varying shades of blue, pale purple, and light green.

She has to admit, Sarah’s bathing suit really sets off the red in her hair and—

_Oh god_ , she is becoming one of them.

Falling in behind a purple-clad Marci—who looks like she’s ready for war for all that she’s smiling—Karen waits for her turn to _glide_ out on stage. She ends up walking out with Jessica, Trish, and Elektra on the far end of their little row before they split off, her and Jessica taking to stage right while the other two end up on the left side, waiting as Foggy runs through each state so they can step up onto the little platforms and—

Show off their goods to the audience?

Karen _really_ doesn’t understand the point of all this.

Not just the pageant as a whole, but mostly the bikini competition part.

“ _Vermont!_ ”

_Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall._

Karen steps up to the highlight platform and takes in the massive crowd. And then—

There’s Frank.

Even through the bright lights she can pick him out, standing up and near the back, and he looks—

It’s like she can _feel_ the weight of his stare.

Oh god, is it really that bad?

But then Frank’s hand moves, and she sees it flatten out, palm down, before he turns it palm up, and—

She’s going to lose it, right there on stage.

Her nose crinkles with the force of her smile, and she has to do everything in her power to stop the laughter bubbling up her chest, because all she can think of is that op from three years ago at the gay bar where Frank had to go undercover in a drag show.

The rest of her life, Karen will never forget the way Frank looked in that rainbow-colored wig.

But also, she needs to stop thinking about that because she _cannot_ afford to fall over laughing on stage.

“Okay,” she mutters through her smile. “Dalai Lama, Dalai Lama, _Dalai Lama_.”

After what feels like an eternity, Foggy finally calls Jessica’s name, and she’s able to escape to the cluster of the rest of the ladies who have already gone. Sliding in behind Trish, she muffles her mouth with the palm of her hand and finally lets the laughter free.

—

Now that that nonsense is over, Karen strips out of the bathing suit—with the plans to burn it in the not-too-distant future—and into something, well, a just-as-constricting evening gown for the dreaded interview.

If Karen has to hear one more serious question answered with, “ _World peace_ ,” she is going to take her shoe off and stab her ears with the narrow heel.

Look, Karen gets it, people need to be nicer to one another, but _world peace_ isn’t an actual concrete answer.

Have none of these women educated themselves on public policy?

“Karen Freebush,” she cringes at the way Foggy says her fake last name. “What is the one most important thing our society needs?”

Karen pretends to pause for a moment in consideration, “That would be, harsher punishment for parole violators, Foggy.”

Of course, she gets crickets.

Damnit.

“And,” oh god, this hurts. “ _World peace._ ”

There’s the applause.

Foggy blessedly dismisses her, and Karen waves to the cheering crowd, knows that the smile on her face is so exaggerated that it hurts. She passes the microphone off to Sarah before heading toward Billy—who really has some seriously unprecedented access to the backstage areas that no other coaches have.

She hopes it doesn’t make it too obvious that she really has no idea what she’s doing with all this pageant nonsense.

Before she can make it to Billy, Elektra steps in front of her, and she stops short.

“I’m on to you, Vermont,” Elektra says, her voice pitched low so none of the other ladies surrounding her can hear her, but it’s still threatening, sets her hackles up.

Tamping down on her urge to handle it as she would if she weren’t undercover, Karen puts her hands up, plasters as much innocence as she can manage onto her face, “Hey, I just want to promote my message about world peace.”

Her scowl deepens, “If you do anything to jeopardize the integrity of this competition-“

“Like I said yesterday,” she says, pointed. “It was just my ex who tracked me down. Don’t make a big deal about this, Hawaii.”

Elektra stares her down, trying to intimidate her with her dark eyes and the sleek, polished-ness of her entire being. Karen stares right back until Elektra finally nods once and walks away, toward her own coach, who has somehow managed to navigate the backstage without knocking into anything or anyone.

Okay then.

That was—interesting.

“Are you drunk?” Billy asks when she finally makes it to him. “And what the hell was that all about?”

“Just making sure I’m not destroying the sanctity of her precious pageant,” Karen waves a hand in dismissal as she props up against the stuccoed wall next to him. “I think it’s just a women thing.”

“Something tells me I might know what _women things_ are a little better than _you._ ”

“Oh please,” she fires back as Sarah takes the stage for her interview. “After the week I’ve had, I’m a damn expert.”

Billy opens his mouth to snark back a response, but before he can, Frank shoulders his way over a stack of paper in one hand, “Hey,” he says, short and sounding a little out of breath. “I have a—”

He breaks off, and Karen’s brows furrow when she looks up and finds him watching her, “What?” She asks, her hackles rising and more than a little defensive. “I know, I know, I look ridiculous. What do you have?”

“No, you don’t,” but then Billy’s looking at Frank, pointed, and he shakes his head and holds up the papers. “Never mind, I have a lead.”

“The blood work?”

Frank shakes his head, “No, this is courtesy of David digging deeper into your roommate,” he holds up the papers, pictures of Marci at a protest and holding a sign that says _NO FUR, NO WAY_. “Turns out Marci Stahl is a member of a radical animal rights group involved in several bombings. She fits the profile, you know, someone who would do _anything_ to get what she wants.”

“Marci?” Karen just can’t believe it.

Sure, Marci looks like a shark when she smiles and she’s made it clear she’s not in the pageant to make friends, but the woman doesn’t have a bone in her skinny little body that would hurt a fly.

Karen looks at the stage, where Marci stands next to Foggy, microphone in her hand, and she’s—

She’s _actually_ smiling at Foggy as he asks her the questions on his cue card.

Like—not even the smile you’d see if a shark smiled before it bit your arm off.

No shit.

“Her? Really?”

Karen would know if she were rooming with a lunatic bomber. And Marci’s a shark in human form, but she’s not exactly an actress.

“I think you might be misreading things,” she says, handing the pictures back to him before shouldering her way from the side-stage.

Of course, Frank and Billy follow her, because this is her life now.

“Karen, listen to me,” Frank says. “Maybe she’s an accomplice, maybe she’s his inside connection, maybe she’s totally innocent, that’s what we need you need to find out.”

“No shit, really?” She snaps as they stop halfway up the little bridge that’s just far enough away from the stage and audience that no one will notice them. “It’s not like I can use my normal interrogation techniques.”

“Coax it out of her, you know, girl talk.”

She rounds on him, her expression flat, “I’m sorry, _what_ did you just say?”

“Didn’t you just tell me you’re an expert on women things now?” Billy pipes up with a smirk.

Karen turns her scowl to him, “You shut up,” she shakes her head. “Wait, never mind, you’re metrosexual enough. What the fuck is girl talk? I’m drawing a blank over here.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You know, if you’re not going to help, you can just-“

Billy rolls his eyes, “Leg waxing, fake orgasms, the inability of men to commit.”

Is that really what women talk about?

  
Really?

“I think things might go better if _you_ talk to her.”

Billy turns to Frank with a look of serious consternation, and he shakes his head, “Just pretend she’s me and there’s something you want to know, but I don’t want to talk about it,” Frank suggests. “What would you do?”

Her brows furrow, “You seriously want me to beat it out of her?”

With a sigh, Frank looks back at Billy, “Why don’t you go talk to her?”

“What? And have him blow all our covers?” Karen breaks in. “Never mind, I’ll go.”

She reaches into her ear and pulls out her comm., hands it to Frank, who looks like she’s handing him live explosives.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t do girl talk with a guy in my head. I can barely do girl talk with _me_ in my head.”

Which he knows, considering _every single_ awkward conversation she’s ever had with his daughter.

She runs a hand through her thick and hairspray sticky hair and sighs, “Okay,” she mutters. “Girl talk.”

Frank puts a hand on her shoulder, his thumb resting o her collarbone, which sends a zing of heat down her back that she tamps down on, “Hey,” he says, waits for her to look at him. “You can do this.”

Sure she can.

—

Once they’re released back to the hotel on their own recognizance, or whatever it is in pageant terms, Karen goes back to her room to change into a tank-top and yoga pants—the closest she can get to the sweats she usually wears when she’s at home and not on this undercover mission from hell.

Marci’s already gone by the time she emerges from the bathroom, but she knows where to find her.

It’s the same place she knows where to find half of the pageant contestants at this hour.

The gym.

On her way across the hotel property, she finds David loitering in a quiet hallway. Without asking her how she’s doing—because she’s not about to go into it and he’s a smart enough man to know that—he hands her a box of pizza, which is the best thing she’s smelled in _days_ , and a heavy basket full of beer cans.

She glances down at the brand and rolls her eyes, “Really? Frank’s shitty IPA?”

David throws his hands up, “You know I’m not a beer drinker.”

With a roll of her eyes, she heads off to the gym.

Never far apart from one another, Jessica and Trish are side by side on the exercise bikes, and Karen can feel the burn of their gazes as they take in the contraband she’s carrying. Scanning the room, she finds Marci sitting by the jacuzzi, Sarah sitting on the other side with her arms wrapped around her bent knees.

Jessica perks up first, “ _Oh my god_ , where did you get that?”

“That’s for me to know,” she smirks and makes her way toward Sarah. “How we doing Breckenridge?”

Sarah sighs, turns her head on her knee so she’s looking up at Karen, “Oh, I don’t know. I feel like I absolutely bombed the interview.”

“Excuse me,” Karen snorts. “We all bombed that interview. The whole thing is just an epic shit show. Well,” she looks over her shoulder at Marci. “Except you. You did kill yours. Good job.”

Marci flips her hair over her shoulder, “Thank you,” she says, prim. “You all did well too. No need to drown your sorrows in _pizza and beer_ ,” she glares at the basket in Karen’s hand like it’s a pair of last season’s Prada shoes.

“What, it’s not like I’m going to do a keg stand. I have been without for _way_ too long, and I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have myself a good night tonight. Anyone else want in?”

“But you’ll bloat up like a balloon!” Marci tries to protest, even as she stares as the box of pizza like a lion staring down prey. “And the live show is tomorrow!”

Jesus, she’s going to need more than pizza if she wants to pull this off.

And definitely more beer.

“Do you even know how many calories are in _pizza_?” Elektra chimes in distastefully from behind her, and it takes everything Karen has for her not to turn around and deck her for daring to startle her.

Plopping down by the jacuzzi, Karen grabs one of the beers from her basket and cracks it open, “So I’ll wear an extra pair of Spanx under my dress. Who needs to breathe on national television anyway?”

She looks around at the other ladies before flipping the pizza box open and snagging a slice, “Seriously, pizza anyone?”

And then, the wolves descend.

Yeah, she’s going to need a shitton more pizza.

“Anyone want to stage a jailbreak for a few hours?”

—

Instead of finding a nearby Pizza Hut or Dominoes, or wherever whatever local hole in the wall David ordered the pizza she snuck through the hotel from—because he’s always about shopping local—they find a bar.

And not just any bar, they find a _neon splatter-paint rave bar_.

Even better.

They sure as shit don’t have places like this in New York City.

Seriously, Karen would kill for a local that offered pitchers of draft beer at three bucks a pop.

Her local, Josie’s is—well, it offers alcohol, at least?

Either way, it doesn’t take much effort on her part to get her fellow pageant-mates good and drunk, especially not with the cocktail waitresses coming around at _very regular_ intervals with their trays full of shots in those skinny little tube things.

Her tank-top and leggings are covered in glowing splatters of paint after a second session up on stage with Sarah and Marci, and they head back upstairs, heralded by the cheers from Trish, Jessica, Dinah, and hell, even Elektra cheers a bit too.

They salute to another round of shots, and Karen chases hers with a long drink of beer that, while cheap, does taste a hell of a lot like hoppy water.

“This is so weird,” Marci says as she tosses her shot glass on the table. “This is my third one of these, and I don’t feel a thing!”

She sways in her seat as she says it, so Karen’s not entirely convinced Marci knows what it means to actually be drunk.

Poor girl.

“It’s kind of like when I answered my interview question,” she sighs, toying with the crust of the pizza she devoured a little while ago.

Karen waves a hand, “Don’t worry about that, we all sucked.”

“Yeah, but you had such a great answer Karen,” Marci insists, and Karen’s brows hike in the direction of her hairline. “Like, why do we all have to throw out _world peace_ this and _world peace_ that? I want to talk about some actual public policy here!”

Holy shit.

“Hell yeah!” Jessica cheers, and the other girls hum in agreement.

Before Karen has the chance to think about a way to get Marci alone for a little bit, another cocktail waitress comes by asking if they want to do another round of shots, and Jessica and Trish start grabbing them and passing them around the table.

“No, I can’t do another one!” Marci insists.

“Yes you can,” the girls chorus.

“Okay!”

She takes two.

Go figure that she’d be all go big or go home tonight, even if it’s just about letting loose.

And it looks like Karen’s not the only contestant who’s going to be wearing double-layered Spanx tomorrow.

Jessica tosses back half of her beer before standing up, “All right, time for more paint,” she grabs Elektra’s arm. “Come on!”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she says, the only one at the table who’s paint free.

“Yeah you can, Hawaii, and you are,” Jessica fires back, grabbing her arm, and between her and Trish, they manage to coax Elektra toward the stairs leading back to the paint-soaked lower level, Dinah and Sarah following at their heels.

Thank god.

Now she can talk to Marci in peace.

"This is fun!” Marci says around another sip of beer. “We should do stuff like this more often during pageants. Would totally make it less of a buzz-kill.”

Karen’s brows fly right back to her hairline.

Really? Marci I’m-Not-Here-To-Make-Friends Stahl thinks the pageant is a buzz-kill?

Will wonders never cease?

“Yeah, it’s so fun. So much it should be illegal, right? Have you ever done anything illegal?”

Shit, it’s a good thing Marci’s more than a little buzzed, because that was a really mediocre segue.

Marci hums around a sip of beer as she wavers a little on her stool again, “Well, I kind of blackmailed my college lit professor, my junior year.”

What.

“He called me to his office, said he wanted to discuss a paper, _you know_ ,” she leans in conspiratorially. “ _Discuss_ a paper, and he totally came at me.”

Oh god.

“Did you tell anyone?”

Marci rolls her eyes, “Of course not. The last time someone at my school accused a professor of anything like that, her entire life was completely ruined. I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of my pageant career, or, you know, my life, but I still wanted to get back at him. I found out the pervert recorded the whole thing, got my hands on the recording, and held it over him until I graduated. No one else at the school was going to have my back, so, you know, I got mad, and then I got even.”

_Holy shit_.

Marci Stahl is _not_ someone you want to fuck with.

But is she the person of interest in The Citizen case that Frank thinks she might be?

Doubtful.

Taking revenge on her rapist lit professor doesn’t exactly translate to threatening to bomb the pageant, especially with how intent she is on having a successful career.

It just doesn’t make sense.

Back to square one they go.

—

By the time the others get done painting downstairs, Marci is snoozing away on Karen’s shoulder. Her arm is going numb, with Marci’s slight weight pressed against her.

“We better get back,” Elektra says, looking dignified even with a massive smear of blue paint on her cheek, and she grabs the last of her beer, sips at it like it’s a glass of top-shelf whiskey that Karen would pay a premium for at any bar in Manhattan.

Even if Karen wasn’t _exhausted_ , she’d agree, “Yeah, because heaven forbid Mrs. Fisk finds out and reams us all new assholes.”

“Oh, Vanessa just has a boot up her ass about something,” Trish says, dismissive as she nibbles on a piece of pizza crust.

“I don’t think she ever got over those _rumors_ ,” Elektra says.

Karen’s brow twitches, “Really?”

“You never heard?” Sarah asks, and Karen winces, because why doesn’t she just shout to the rooftops that Karen _doesn’t actually have pageant experience_. “Her pageant year, she was actually the runner up, but then the winner just mysteriously _gets food poisoning._ ”

“How _bizarre_ ,” Jessica says, and Karen _still_ isn’t sure if she actually takes all this pageant stuff seriously or not.

“And Foggy told me she got a letter from the network a few weeks back,” Trish pipes up. “They’re firing her too! She threw a chair out the window!”

Oh shit.

Marci mumbles in her sleep and slumps more of her weight into Karen’s side, “ _Okay_ ,” she shifts so she stops losing feeling in her right arm, nudges her own shoulder under Marci’s arm and lifts her off the stool. “Let’s get this one back to the hotel. Come on.”

But more than that, she needs to talk to Frank.

—

Running through a hotel hallway without _actually running_ through a hotel hallway is _hard_.

Karen turns a corner and nearly runs right into a hotel staff member before she reaches the door to Frank and David’s room. When Ellison’s voice echoes from the other side, she winces, fumbles with her room key before she manages to fit it in the slot.

“Look, I’ve got twenty people here, waiting for confirmation,” Ellison snaps to whoever he’s on the phone with as she slips inside the crowded suite. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand, you don’t understand. People are waiting. We need to know now.”

All eyes turn to Karen when she slips inside, and she presses the door shut behind her so it clicks instead of slamming like this hotel’s doors tend to do, “You,” she hisses when Frank meets her eye. “I need to talk to you.”

Walking over, Frank looks at her, and for a second Karen thinks he might be a little distracted by the spray of green paint trailing down her cleavage before he shakes himself out of it, “You know, I hate it when I don’t see that wet paint sign.”

“You told me to do girl talk, apparently this is girl talk.” she hisses out of the side of her mouth. “Just listen to me, I have a lead, and it’s not Marci.”

“Forget it Picasso,” David says over his shoulder. “Apparently they bagged The Citizen.”

She blinks, and okay, she might be a little hazy from all the beer, “What? Where?”

Before Frank can answer, Ellison hangs up and turns around to face the room, “It’s confirmed,” he says. “He was holding up in a shack in Nevada. The place had enough C4 to make a new Grand Canyon. So let’s pack up and get the hell out of here.”

  
“Wait, really?”

Everyone in the room freezes, turns and gapes at her, and Karen steels her shoulders and keeps going.

“Don’t you think it’s going to be a little bizarre if a contestant just drops out under mysterious circumstances?”

Ellison’s brows hike in the direction of his receding hairline, “Really Page? I thought you’d be jumping for joy at the chance to get out of here. We caught the guy. It’s time to go home.”

In any other universe, he’d totally be right.

But not now, not after what she knows.

“Look sir, I think the situation requires further scrutiny. What if we were wrong? What if The Citizen didn’t send the letter that sent us all the way out here? What if it was a copycat?”

“A copycat?” He asks, but doesn’t sound remotely convinced.

All the same, Karen _knows_ she’s right about this.

“The letter didn’t follow the normal pattern, the linguistic scheme was totally off, and the DNA said _it was a woman_.”

Ellison throws his arms up, “Maybe he got his girlfriend to lick the envelope?”

“Have you become that shitty of an investigator to really believe _that’s_ the most likely explanation?” She blurts before her verbal filter has the chance to kick in. “This entire damn case has been full of holes from day one! We can’t just leave and put the pageant ladies at risk. That’s not what I signed up for when I joined the bureau.”

For a second, no one moves, no one _breathes_ , and Ellison turns a little red, “You’re on thin enough ice, Page,” he says, cold. “You do not want to keep pushing it.”

She holds her hands up, placating, and takes a half-step back, “Sir, I think we have reason to monitor Vanessa Fisk.”

“Really?” He snaps, and she does not jump, because she _knew_ he was going to ream her a new asshole the second he laid eyes on her. “Why don’t you jump on her dressed like a bedazzled muppet scientist? You are the reason I had to drag myself down here in the first place, and I don’t want to hear another word from you.”

“I understand,” she says, and Ellison’s shoulders drop a little, but she’s not done yet. “But Fisk is _getting fired_ after this year’s show, her pride and joy, and she neglected to tell us. And when she was in the pageant, the only reason she won the crown was because the winner mysteriously got food poisoning. How bizarre is that?”

“ _Bizarre?_ ”

“And she threatened me, and according to Trish Walker, she has a history of violent behavior.”

“ _Who the hell is Trish Walker_? Where are you getting your information from, a pajama party?”

Her right eye is starting to twitch, “I got my information by doing _what I was assigned to do_. To _investigate_ this pageant. And I have to wonder why it seems like I’m the only one in this room that’s actually interested in doing that. I know it’s not a lot to go on, but it’s not nothing, and—”

“Karen,” Frank says, standing next to her but not meeting her eye. “Enough.”

“Enough?” She rounds on him, but he still won’t look her in the eye. “Really? You were the one who put me up to this.”

Ellison turns to Frank, “Castle, Do you believe there is any reason to suspect Fisk?”

Finally, Frank looks at her, and Karen arches a brow, but the way he’s looking at her, it’s like there’s a stranger standing there instead of her partner. He turns back to Ellison, “No, sir.”

Okay, so after all this time, Frank doesn’t actually have her back.

Go fucking figure.

“Well then,” Ellison says. “It’s time to go.”

The other agents in the room start shifting around, and Karen steps back toward Ellison before he can leave the suite, “Sir, permission to stay behind with a small contingent of agents to investigate Mrs. Fisk.”

“Denied.”

Well, even if they’re leaving, she sure as hell isn’t.

There’s something wrong here and she will never forgive herself if something happens to the other pageant ladies.

“Then I request permission to stay behind, alone.”

Ellison shrugs back into his coat, “Page, I don’t care what you do,” he snaps. “You want to stay, then you’re doing it as a private citizen. Turn in your badge, and your gun. Everybody else, I suggest you start packing.”

And then he’s gone, the other agents filing out behind him, leaving her alone with Frank.

“Karen,” he catches her wrist in his hand, tries to tug her so she looks at him, but she refuses to. “Don’t do this.”

She wrenches her arm away, “Damnit Castle, you don’t get to throw me out to dry like that and then turn around and tell me what I should or shouldn’t do! No one else seems to want me to do my job, apparently. including you of all people, but that sure as hell isn’t going to stop me from doing it.”

Propping her leg against the desk, she tugs her pants up and goes for her ankle holster.

“Karen,” Frank says again. “Don’t.”

She looks up at him over her shoulder, “You have my back?”

Still not looking her in the eye, Frank sighs, “Karen—“

It’s not a yes.

That’s all she needs to know.

She unwraps the holster, gun and badge and all, and pushes it into his chest, “I’ll see you when I see you,” she mutters.

Stalking out of the suite, this time she lets the door slam shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, and I'm going to try to turn it around quicker than this one!


	5. “At least there will probably be an open bar? And no bikinis, they don’t fall in the category of ‘black tie’.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen makes it into the top-5.
> 
> Despite everything—including falling on her face on national television and beating up her partner on-stage as her talent—she actually makes it into the top-5, on her own, without the backing of the FBI. 
> 
> Holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this, not going to lie, but I had about 6000 words already written for this chapter, had it for weeks, and then got stuck. Action scenes are hard, yo. And I also tacked on that scene with Amy from the beginning of the chapter too, which further delayed me.
> 
> But last night, I knew I had to finish it, because I have about a million things to do coming up, and really wanted to knock this one off my to-do list. I turned on some binural beats, and got the hell to work.
> 
> So here you are, 9200 words awesome wrap-ups, and—if I do say so myself—a pretty cute coda.
> 
> This fic has been quite the ride, especially considering it was something that I A, wanted to have done in June (sorry for the delay nxbodygoesafterher!), B) I only intended to have three chapters, and C), am also building a business and that takes up about 95 percent of my life right now, with the other 5 percent being split between sleep, family, and Kastle, of course.

Look, Amy gets it, she’s more than _incredibly_ lucky to live the life she has, even if her parents are extremely hands off except in the rare times where they decide that she’s relevant to their lives and become incredibly overbearing pains in her ass.

She just wants to be a normal damn teenager.

And normal teenagers aren’t strong-armed by their only-sometimes-overbearing mothers to be a runner for their stupid nationally-televised—but not highly viewed—pageants.

Sorry, _scholarship programs that happen to feature extremely outdated bikini competitions._

All week long, Amy’s barely had time to herself, running up one side of the hotel and down the other, back and forth between the preliminary arena and the hall they’re going to broadcast the finals.

It’s _exhausting,_ as much as it is annoying.

But then nighttime happens, and her mother finally goes off to the sleep of the very, very drugged, leaving Amy to have some time to herself—mostly to hit on the hot waitstaff in the hotel restaurant. She is _so_ close to conning one of them to provide her with actual alcohol, rather than just soda.

She can’t wait until she’s finally 21.

With a soda—ugh—in one hand and her phone in the other, Amy meanders her way through the hotel hallway on the level with all the banquet halls and meeting rooms, for lack of much else to do.

It’s completely deserted at the house of oh-dark-very-very-late, and Amy’s humming under her breath as she waits for her friends to text her back, when she hears a very familiar-sounding shriek.

Okay, so mother isn’t sleeping the sleep of the drugged quite yet.

Creeping toward the room her mother has turned into her office, Amy’s frown deepens when she hears Dex’s voice respond to Mrs. Fisk’s sharp admonishment. The not-so-dynamic duo have been _very_ hush-hush all week, and if Amy actually cared, she’d put her nose in it, except—

All her friends went to the Hamptons this summer, while she’s stuck cooling her heels in San Antonio.

Either way, maybe she’ll hear something that she can lord over them with, and maybe get her summer back.

But her frown deepens when she overhears Dex talk about how the FBI caught The Citizen, which—isn’t that why Agent Page has been running around in a bikini all week?

Creeping further forward, Amy hides around a very large and very fake plant, brows hiking to her hairline when she sees her mother wearing the crown. Through a crack between the leaves, Amy sees her mother hold up a pile of letters, listing of terror organization after terror organization to lay blame on and—

Holy shit, they’re the ones behind all this shit?

Because the network wanted someone who didn’t look like an old crone to run the event?

Yeesh.

Once her mother and Dex finally leave the room, Amy creeps in, digs through her mother’s desk for the letters, shoves them under her shirt and sneaks back out.

She needs to find those FBI agents.

—

The hotel is crowded the next morning, especially on the floors the FBI took over so they could investigate without the other pageant staff or contestants realizing that they were around. Karen bounces around a pair of hotel staffers who are rolling out a rack of gowns from Billy’s room, and slips inside to see him packing too.

“Let me guess,” she mutters when she sees Billy gathering the little hotel shampoo, conditioner, and lotion bottles from the dressing area outside the ensuite. “You’re leaving too?”

It’s a question, but it’s really not.

  
Billy shrugs a shoulder and tosses the lot into the suitcase open on his bed, “Your director made it clear that if I don’t, then I’m not getting paid. Sorry Page,” he actually does sound a little apologetic as he meets her eye. “But as much as this was a favor for Frankie, you know it’s all about the money too. And the bureau agreed to pay me _a lot_ of money for my services.”

Pragmatic.

She’ll take it.

It’s sure as shit less of a betrayal than what Frank pulled last night.

Hours and a restless half-night’s sleep later, it still stings.

“Go figure Ellison’s trying to hose me out of spite,” she mutters, slumping down in front of the vanity. “Why do I feel like I need a goddamn dick to be taken seriously around here?”

“I don’t think I’m the best person to ask about your agency politics.”

“Probably not,” she sighs, runs a hand through her hair and finds a massive snarl on the top of her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Russo. I don’t think there was enough time for them to knock me out of the top-10, but after that it’s not fixed anymore. No FBI backing, no guarantees, and there’s definitely something shady going on around here.”

“All the same, I have taken an absolute disaster of a human being and transformed her into a lady,” Billy flips the lid of his suitcase and zips it shut. “You really have no idea just how much of a change you have undergone in mere days, Page. It’s truly one of the greatest accomplishments in my entire career. Including my foster sister.”

Karen blinks, “Your what?”

Billy turns away from his suitcase, stands in front of her, “My mom was in and out of rehab when I was a kid, so I spent a lot of time in the foster system. When I was in high school, one of my foster sisters was really into pageants. Because her parents were so busy with the other kids they were fostering, I helped her out with everything. It’s how I got my start as a coach. Ever since, I’ve worked with a lot of women, and _none of them_ were anything like you, Karen Page,” he puts his hands on her shoulders. “You have more than proved that there is nothing you can’t accomplish. You want to get yourself into the top-5 tonight? Then I know you’re going to find a way.”

She’s been on the verge of tears since leaving Frank’s room hours ago, and she presses her hand over her eyes.

“Don’t let anything that’s happened—not your boss, not Frankie putting his foot in it like I’m sure he did, not anything—stop you from doing what you do best, Page. There’s a reason you’re here, and there’s no one else I would have rather worked with on this mission.”

Karen drops her hand, blinks up at him, “Really?”

“I mean, I would have preferred if you were slightly less of an asshole about the entire process, but I’ll take what I can get,” he smirks, which draws a laugh from her. “To be honest, I kind of knew what I was getting into.”

So, Frank’s talked to Billy about her before.

Another bolt of pain stabs through her chest, and she tamps down on it.

She can’t afford to think about Frank right now.

With a watery scoff, Karen punches him in the chest, but doesn’t put any weight behind it. Billy grabs her hand, pushes the sleeve back on her oversized sweater, and presses his mouth to her knuckles before stepping back, “Now, I can’t be much help to you for tonight’s show, but I do have something for you.”

He walks over to the table by the balcony and picks up a large dress box wrapped with a giant silver bow, “This is for you. It’ll be perfect for tonight. If it doesn’t help you get into the top-five, I don’t know what will.”

Billy leaves the room, and Karen drops back to the bed with a sigh.

She sits for a few minutes, drumming her fingers against the side of the box and wallowing in the shitty feeling crawling up her chest before she shakes her head, “Okay Page,” she squares her shoulders, looks down at the box in her arms. “Let’s figure this shit out.”

—

“Frankie,” Billy says as he gets into the SUV idling in the hotel parking lot. “I knew you were a dumbass when it comes to Page, but this takes the damn cake.”

Frank’s knuckles go white against the steering wheel, “Shut up Bill.”

—

Getting ready backstage was nothing short of a disaster, and it didn’t help that Karen had to fend off the girls’ well-intended questions about why she missed dress rehearsal.

It’s a good thing the mascara Billy left her was waterproof, because try as she might, she’s still more than a little on the verge of angry tears, especially every time Frank comes to mind.

It’s _really_ inconvenient.

A manicured hand thrusts a small bottle in front of her face as she fiddles with the single strap of her Statue of Liberty-inspired gown for the opening act, “Here.”

Karen blinks, looks up to find Elektra standing next to her, “What?”

“For your eyes,” she waves the bottle. “Allergies, yeah?”

“Something like that,” she says as she takes it. “Thanks Elektra.”

Elektra smiles, and for the first time since they met, Karen’s sure it’s genuine, “Those HD television cameras pick up _everything_ these days. Wouldn’t want viewers to think Vermont is the stoner state.”

With a snort, Karen uncaps the bottle and squeezes a drop into her right eye, and then the left, “Heaven forbid,” she laughs, swipes at a stray drop that misses her eye and trails down her cheek.

“You good, Vermont?”

Karen hands the bottle back to her, “I’m good, Hawaii. Let’s have a show.”

—

How she was picked to be one of the principal dancers for that opening act, Karen has _no idea_.

And having to concentrate on the dance she barely knows the moves to doesn’t help the fact that she’s trying to keep an eye on literally anything that could potentially be suspicious, from Mrs. Fisk struggling to open a bottle of antacids to all the random pieces of equipment strewn about the backstage area.

During one of her turns, she spies Foggy dancing off-stage, Dex standing behind him and—

She doesn’t like the look on his face.

  
Well, Karen’s never liked the look on his face because it’s usually been pointed in the direction of her and the other contestants’ asses, but now, there’s just something about it, and if he’s not Fisk’s partner in all this, she’ll eat her left shoe.

Also, all this body glitter is starting to make her skin itch. Seriously, what is this, the 2000 throwback pageant?

“And now, your host for the evening, Foggy Nelson!”

Foggy strides out on stage to a raucous round of applause, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and welcome to a night of beauty, talent, and poise. And I’m not just talking about my co-host, Vanessa Fisk!”

Fisk strides out on stage from behind them, and Karen feels her hackles rise at the set of her shoulders as she makes her way down the stairs and lands at Foggy’s side, “Foggy, you charmer. But you forgot to mention incredible and intelligent,” she says with a wink, which earns her a round of laughter from the audience.

“Well that was incredibly stupid of me,” Foggy banters back as they walk in the direction of stage left. “How can I make it up?”

“By helping me to announce the top-10 finalists, chosen based on their performances during the preliminaries this past week.”

Okay, here we go.

—

Mrs. Fisk is the one to read her name off, and Karen spends so much of her focus thinking about the beat of hesitation in her tone before she said her name that she—

She falls on her face.

Of fucking course she does.

“Oh shit,” Foggy blurts as Karen pops back off the shiny stage floor, and she _knows_ her foundation can’t hide the red flush that spreads across her face and neck.

When she finally makes it to the row at the front of the stage with her fellow top-10 finalists, Dinah leans over and helps her pick her hair out of the spiky crown headpiece, and she barely registers the last of the top-10 being announced in Sarah Breckenridge.

And thank god, it’s time for a commercial break.

—

The drive to the airfield is dead silent and tense, and Frank doesn’t say a word as he helps Ellison unload their gear out of the trunk.

He’s in enough trouble already, but there’s something that’s been nagging at him since last night, and try as he might, he can’t help but think that maybe, maybe they _did_ get this one wrong.

And if they did, it means Karen’s back in the lion’s den _without backup_.

He knows she can more than take care of herself, but this was _his_ op.

If anything happens to her—

“Hey! FBI guys!”

Frank stops halfway up the stairs to the jet, sees the girl who shouted after them and—shit is that Amy Fisk?

“FBI guys, wait up, I need to talk to you!”

She’s running up the tarmac, waving her hand, hair bouncing in a trail behind her, “Dude, where the hell are you guys going?” She asks between gasps when she finally reaches them, stumbling a little until David catches her arm and helps her steady back on her feet.

“How did you get past airport security?” Frank asks as she drops her hands to her knees to catch her breath, so she must have been running a while.

Amy looks up from the side, and he can feel the force of her late-stage teenage glare smack him like Lisa’s does when she’s in a mood, “Um, not even close to the point right now, dude,” she says. “Where the heck do you think you and your bureau bros are going?”

“Back to New York. We caught the guy,” Frank puts a hand on her shoulder, helps her stand back up. “Don’t worry, your mom’s pageant is safe.”

“No, it’s definitely not,” she digs into her bag, pulls out an envelope. “My mom and brother are up to something super sketch.”

“You have a brother?” Billy asks as he walks up to Frank’s side.

Amy rolls her eyes again, “ _Oh my god_ , I had no idea how incompetent the FBI really is. _Wow_. Maybe I should have just gone to Homeland.”

“Amy, focus,” Frank squeezes the hand on her shoulder, shakes her a little to get her attention. “What about your brother? We didn’t know you have a brother.”

“Dude, _you know_ my brother,” she looks between the three of them, blinks and very clearly resists the urge to roll her eyes again. “ _Dex._ Dex is my brother.”

“We ran background on him,” David says, sounding more than a little offended. “It came back clean. Mrs. Fisk too, both times I ran her.”

“Well clearly you didn’t run background on _Benjamin Fisk,_ ” she waves the envelope again, pushes it into Frank’s chest, and with the way it crinkles, it must be full of paper—full of potential evidence. “He’s up to some serious shit and everyone back there is in danger, including your hot model friend. And by the way, you seriously need to get after that, because _damn_.”

Billy laughs long and loud, swings an arm around Amy’s shoulders, “I like you, kid. Tell us more about your brother, and make it quick. Frankie, get the car.”

—

So, major perk of being in the top-10, Karen does _not_ have to get back in the bikini from hell.

Thank god.

She’s zipping herself into her bedazzled lab coat—seriously, _why_ _does it have ruffles—_ while also trying to keep an eye on Mrs. Fisk and Dex as the other non-finalists file off stage in their pastel bathing suits.

Of course, all they’re doing is watching the broadcast from the monitor next to the stage, because of course they’re not just going to be doing their potentially nefarious plotting right out in the open.

That would be easy, and none of this has been remotely easy.

Karen ducks back into the dressing area, grabs the package she was able to overnight—thanks Amazon—and runs over to where Sarah is doing the finishing touches on her own exaggerated stage makeup, “Hey, Sarah! I got something for you.”

She takes the package and opens it, eyes flaring wide at the set of flaming batons inside, “Oh Karen, I couldn’t-“

“Of course you can,” she scoffs. “Last night, you got yourself covered in neon paint and stuffed yourself with pizza and beer. This year’s pageant is _all_ about letting loose and doing exactly whatever the hell _you_ want. You’ve so got this.”

Sarah looks down at the batons, and lifts them out of the bag, considering, “Okay!” She says, bright, before throwing her arms around Karen in a tight hug.

“Oh—okay then,” Karen laughs as she awkwardly pats her shoulder before Sarah lets her go, giving her the chance to finish getting ready.

—

Marci’s standing at her side as they watch Sarah’s performance from the side-stage, which—

Karen had no idea that baton twirling could be as legitimately entertaining as what Sarah managed to pull off, with the flipping and the twirling and the throwing of sticks that are actually on fire.

Go figure.

Extinguishing the batons, Sarah bows to the judges before she flounces offstage, right into their little happy mob. When Karen turns her back to the stage, just over Trish and Dinah’s shoulders, she sees—

Billy?

She blinks, but there he is, still in the suit from this morning and definitely not on a plane back to New York.

“What are you-” she breaks off when Foggy calls Jessica’s name, and Karen pats her shoulder and mutters a quick _good luck_ as she makes her way on stage.

Billy cocks his head to the side, and Karen ducks around a flying elbow as she makes her way over, “What are you doing here?” She asks as he plants a hand between her shoulder-blades and guides her toward one of the curtained-off areas deeper backstage.

He pulls open one of the curtains, and Karen’s brows hike to her hairline when she finds Frank standing there, David at his side and Fisk’s daughter at his elbow, her eyes trained on her phone as she fires off a rapid series of texts.

Frank’s looking her in the eye again, but that doesn’t stop her from thinking about what happened the night before, and how much it still hurts.

“Hi Karen.”

Yep. Still hurts.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighs, cards a hand through his hair, “Karen, I think you were right.”

Wait, _what_?

“Okay, and?”

He shakes his head, “Look, we can talk about what happened last night, we should and I want to, but—later. We don’t have time right now. Dex is Fisk’s son.”

Karen flicks a quick glance at Amy, who glances up and rolls her eyes before looking back down at her phone, “You mean, creepy Dex is her brother?”

“And he always has been,” Amy mutters, and then tacks on something that sounds like, _incompetent_.

She looks back at Frank, who nods, “He cleared under another name. David ran him again and he has a rap sheet a mile long. DUI, assault, weapons charges-“

“Along with some really sketchy business dealings that might be connected to Fisk’s husband, but I need more time to figure out how the allegations match up,” David adds, and then shakes his head, scowling like he’s pissed that he missed it the first time around. “But it’s not relevant right now. Finding the bomb is.”

“Okay,” Karen nods as Billy starts messing with the ruffles on the back of her ridiculous, bedazzled lab coat-dress, and yeah, time is ticking before she has to go out on stage, they can leave the talking about their feelings for later. “So what are we doing? What’s the plan?”

Frank looks a little sheepish, and also more than a little annoyed, “Ellison didn’t want to hear it. It’s just us. We have to find Dex.”

“Okay,” she turns to Amy. “He’s been glued to your mom’s hip all night, but I didn’t see him offstage just how. Any idea where he might be lurking?” She then frowns, turns back to Frank, but points at Amy. “What is she? Is she a CI now? Why is she here?”

“I’m here because sure, the pageant sucks, but I don’t want to see anyone get hurt because my mom can’t handle her stupid grudges with the network,” Amy says before Frank can get a word in. “ _Duh_. I personally don’t get it, it’s just a fancy talent show.”

Karen sighs, and she reaches up to rub a hand over her face, but before she can, Billy yanks her hand away, “No,” he says like he’s admonishing a misbehaving puppy. “Don’t ruin your makeup.”

“There are more important things going on right now than _what my face looks like_ , Russo,” she mutters through her teeth.

“There are _not_ ,” he fires back. “There are multiple things that are equally as important as keeping your makeup intact.”

Karen looks at Frank for support—because he _owes her at least that much_ —but he just shrugs.

Before anyone can say anything else, one of the stagehands pokes her head behind the curtain, “There you are Vermont! You’re on next!”

Jesus Christ, this is _not_ the time for her to go on stage and teach a science class.

Wait—

“Oh shit,” she says, can feel herself go pale.

Frank puts a hand on her shoulder, brows knitting in concern, “What is it?”

“The bureau was sourcing the supplies for my talent, but Ellison wouldn’t—“

No material, no talent.

“What are you going to do? You have to make it into the top-five.”

She’s going to ignore the fact that it’s Frank’s fault they’re in this situation in the first place, runs a hand through her hair until Billy smacks it away and reaches up to put everything back into place, “I don’t know!”

“Can you whistle?” Billy asks. “Make shadow puppets? A girl at one of my sister’s competitions would rearrange furniture.”

Rounding on him, Karen rolls her eyes, “Shadow puppets? Are you serious right now?” She snaps, but the look on his face says that he’s waiting on an actual yes or no answer from her. “Of course not! You’re the one who said all I had was sarcasm, a gun, and my caffeine addiction!”

“Yeah, that and a killer right hook,” Frank adds from over her shoulder.

“Damn straight,” she fires back, and then freezes, rounds on him, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.”

  
Frank frowns, “What? Karen, wait _what_?”

—

“And now,” Mrs. Fisk introduces. “The educational stylings of Vermont’s Karen Freebush!”

Karen walks out on stage without her table, flaps her hand a couple times in the direction of the politely clapping crowd, “Good evening,” she says once her intro music stops. “I know the program says I’m supposed to show you some really cool science experiments, but it looks like someone ran off with my supplies. I knew school budget cuts were an issue in this part of the country, but having to steal supplies for your science class from the Miss United States pageant? Harsh.”

That earns her some awkward, if confused laughter from the crowd, and maybe she _can_ tell jokes for her talent.

Or not.

“Like it or not, I believe that no woman should be without at least a basic knowledge of self defense. So, in order to show you this, I’m going to need a little help from my good friend.”

Karen glances offstage where Frank is frantically shaking his head no, and her smirk deepens—he made her walk around in a bikini on national television, at the very least, he owes her _this_.

“ _Frank Bob._ ”

The audience applauds politely as Frank makes his way out on stage, trying but failing to mask the grimace on his face as he makes his way over to her.

There’s a glint in his eye that says he’s going to get her back for this, and she meets his gaze with a pointed look of her own, “I’m going to show you how to attack the most sensitive areas, and how to inflict the maximum amount of damage, with the least amount of force.”

This is going to be fun.

—

**Back in New York**

“Mom! Come quick, Dad’s on TV!”

Hands dripping wet from the half-washed dishes that she leaves in the sink to soak, Maria rushes into the living room, fully expecting to see Frank behind some podium, at a press conference about whatever case he’s been working on in—well, wherever it is that his job takes him.

She’s not saying that the semi-classified, long-term travel was one of the big sticking points in their marriage, but—

It kind of was.

Anyway, the partnership they have worked out since the demise of their marriage has been more than anyone could have asked for, and she’s always glad to have him as a teammate in parenting their children.

But instead of a formal, professional press conference in the FBI’s media room, Maria gets to the television just in time to see her ex-husband’s work-wife—clad in the most ridiculous bedazzled lab coat she’s ever seen, because seriously, how does a coat give her _that much cleavage_ —thrust her palm up into Frank’s nose, sending him staggering back a few steps.

“Oh shit!” Junior says one a laugh as he flops down on the couch next to Lisa. “Go Agent Page!”

“Language Frankie!”

Wiping her hands dry on her jeans, Maria fumbles for her phone, pulls up her text thread with Billy. It’s full of update after absurd update of everything that’s been happening on Texas, including a couple pictures from the other night of Frank making literal heart-eyes at a bikini-wearing Karen.

“ _What the hell are those two getting up to now?_ ”

“ _This? Oh, just foreplay._ ”

“ _If Frank doesn’t ask her out after this, I’m giving David and Curtis permission to lock them in an interrogation room until they get their shit together._ ”

“ _I’m doing everything I can to push things along_.”

“ _You better be._ ”

Maria glances up from Billy’s text in time to see Frank grabbing Karen from behind, and with a grunt, Karen flips him over her shoulder and onto his back on stage.

That one’s probably going to leave some bruises.

A _lot_ of bruises.

“ _Now, if all else fails,_ ” Karen says, and even on screen Maria can see just how much fun she’s having, which is nice, considering how stressed she looked the other time she saw her on the pageant broadcast. She masks it well, but Maria’s known her for years, and knows full well when Karen’s feeling like she’s out of her element. _“Go for the four most sensitive areas of the body. And just remember to sing. S-I-N-G._ ”

Oh god.

Maria looks down at the kids, who stare at the television and look like all their birthdays, Christmases, and trips to Disney World have come at once.

They are _never_ going to let their father live this down.

—

Nudging her shoulder under Frank’s, she helps him offstage to the most raucous applause she’s heard all night, and right into the crowd of her fellow contestants.

“Wait,” Dinah drawls as Billy comes over and hands Frank an ice pack. “Isn’t that that ex you were talking about?”

Karen’s smile stretches almost to the point of pain, “Why would I ever do all that to an ex?” She asks, even as Frank squeezes her side with the arm he’s got around her waist, making her squirm, and if it weren’t for the fact that she just beat him up one side of the stage and down the other, she’d probably would have elbowed him in the gut.

Again.

Moving off to the side, Frank presses the ice pack to the back of his neck, “We have to find Dex.”

“Okay,” Karen nods. “You take that side, I’ll-“

“No,” Billy cuts her off after glancing at his watch. “Evening gown. Now.”

Karen scowls, “Uh, Russo, there’s probably a bomb somewhere around here.”

“And Frank and David will find it. _You_ need to put on the damn evening gown and get your ass into the top-5.”

“Oh, fine.”

—

Karen makes it into the top-5.

Despite everything—including falling on her face on national television _and_ beating up her partner on-stage as her _talent—_ she _actually_ makes it into the top-5, on her own, without the backing of the FBI.

Holy shit.

“Karen Freebush hopes to become a pediatrician,” Mrs. Fisk reads off the card in her hand, and it’s all Karen can do to not lose it as she makes her way downstage. “Her hobbies include figure skating, water ballet, and taking long, luxurious bubble baths.”

Okay, really?

She needs to figure out who in the bureau wrote her bio, so she can kill them.

Falling in line between Sarah and Elektra, Karen listens to Foggy as he announces Marci as the last of the final five.

Karen would have been surprised if she wasn’t.

They cut to commercial right after the announcement—so the crew can re-set the stage for the final interviews—but it’s not enough time for Karen to have the chance to look for Dex. To her credit, she tries to sneak away, but before she can, Billy grabs her by the arm and steers her right back into the holding area with Sarah, Dinah, Marci, and Elektra.

Wherever Frank and David are right now, it’s up to them. With the help of Amy Fisk, of course, but—

She is just a kid.

Jesus, how did it end up coming to this?

“Vermont,” Mrs. Fisk says, pulling Karen out of her musings, most of her focus on sitting up straight and gazing pleasantly in the direction of the audience. “As you may know, there are many who consider the Miss United States Pageant to be outdated and anti-feminist. What would you say to them?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Billy scrub an open palm over his goatee, and she can only imagine what he’s thinking.

Probably nothing good.

Also—what the hell does Mrs. Fisk think she’s doing, openly baiting Karen like that? Has the woman lost her damn mind?

“I would have to say, I used to be one of them,” that earns her a few confused chuckles from the crowd. “And then I realized that these women are smart, terrific, incredibly driven people who are just trying to make a difference in the world. And we’ve become really good friends.”

More applause.

  
“I mean, I know we all secretly hope one of us will trip and fall on our face, but—oh wait a minute, I’ve already done that!” And she has the bruises developing on her knees to prove it. “And for me, this experience has been one of the most rewarding and liberating experiences of my life.”

She tilts her head in Mrs. Fisk’s direction, even if there is a giant, wing-shaped partition between them, “And if anyone, anyone tries to hurt one of my new friends, I will make them suffer so much that they’d wish they were never born. And if they ran, I would track them down, and ensure justice is done. Thank you, Vanessa.”

Off-stage, she sees Billy look like someone just stabbed him in the gut, but—

It’s not like she’s actually trying to win this thing.

Message delivered.

—

They’re backstage for final touch-ups, and Karen is shifting the inserts in the cups of her bra to better enhance her cleavage for the nationally televised audience—advice from Jessica, who is more than a little relieved to no longer be in contention—and she overhears Marci and Sarah talking to last year’s winner.

“Oh, where’s the crown?” Sarah asks. “I wanted to rub it for good luck.”

“Dex took it to the prop master to get it polished,” the reigning Miss United States says. “But don’t worry, I’ll have it back by the time they announce the winner!”

Karen’s eyes go wide, and she whirls around to face Billy, who was smoothing the zipper at the back of her dress. His eyes are wide too, and he stands stock-still until the other three women move out of the way, ushered toward the stage for the final announcements.

“You need to find Frank,” Karen says as the stagehand calls out her name. “Find him now.”

Billy nods, “I will. You go. And be careful.”

“If the crown makes it to the stage, I’ll figure it out, but try to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“ _Go_ , Karen.”

—

Trying to sneak around backstage when you’re on a mission is not an easy task, especially since he doesn’t blend in like he did back in the desert.

Billy makes his way through the massive backstage area, eyes peeled for either Frank, David, or hell, he’d even take the kid at this point.

They need to find that damn crown.

Turning a corner, he almost runs face-first into Frank, who grabs him by the shoulder to steady him, “Billy, what-”

“Frankie, the bomb is in the crown.”

Frank curses and look around again, “You mean _that_ crown?”

Billy follows Frank’s hand as he points toward last year’s Miss United States holding said crown— _the bomb_ —on an oversized cushion as she glides on stage.

“Shit.”

Then, Billy notices movement up in the scaffolding holding up the giant Statue of Liberty decorating the back of the stage, and—

It’s Dex, probably with the detonator.

Frank claps him on the shoulder, “Come on.”

—

God, Karen wishes she were armed right now.

Standing in the middle of a massive stage while _knowing_ that there is a bomb _somewhere_ that she needs to find, and a culprit that Frank and Billy and David need to find, is _really fucking stressful._

Damnit, why did she follow Ellison’s order and give up her sidearm?

Karen forces her shoulders down and away from her ears as she lines up between Elektra and Sarah, Marci and Dinah at the end of their little row.

After that, well, it’s all kind of a blur after that.

Foggy announces Dinah as the fourth runner-up, and right after that is when it all goes to shit.

With the sounds of the speakers and the crowd, it’s hard to notice at first, but then it’s _very clear_ that there’s a fight going on behind them.

Karen whirls around, sees Billy hanging off the edge of the circular staircase while Frank grapples with Dex for what must be the detonator.

“Uhhhh,” Foggy trails off as everyone else on stage notices the commotion. “Security?”

With a roll of her eyes as the stage floods with even more men who are _not_ going to help the situation _at all_ , Karen grabs Sarah and Marci’s hands, tugs them down, “Stay down, and don’t go near that crown.”

“Karen?” Marci asks, but she doesn’t struggle. “What’s happening?”

“Just stay down,” she turns to Elektra, to tell her the same, but Elektra is busy putting her hair up into a twist, a look on her face that—

It looks just like the one she gets when she’s about to dive into a sticky situation.

And then it hits her.

“What agency are you with?”

Elektra tears the slit of her deep red evening gown even higher up her thigh and kicks off her heels, “Interpol. We’re investigating Benjamin Fisk. You?”

No shit.

That actually explains— _a lot_.

“I’m FBI.”

Elektra takes half a second to consider her, “Go figure.”

She doesn’t really know what to say to that, but there’s no time.

Kicking off her own shoes, Karen takes in the absolute chaos on stage, “There’s a bomb in the crown,” she shouts as the non-finalists start screaming and getting in the way of the security guards who are trying to stop Frank and Dex’s fight.

“Are you sure?”

Karen nods, “Absolutely. How’s your CQC?”

“I’ve been trained by the best.”

Of course she has been. Why did she even bother asking?

“Good,” she nods with her chin to the melee. “Help my partner get the detonator from Dex, I’ll secure the crown and Mrs. Fisk.”

Elektra nods and runs off, while Karen scans the stage for last year’s winner.

It takes a second with the mass of people—fortunately, most of the girls are trying to get off-stage through the steps that lead down to the audience, rather than backstage—until her eyes settle on the back of Mrs. Fisk’s head as she takes the crown in her hands.

Shit.

Karen runs across the stage, breaking the nose of a well-intentioned, but definitely-in-the-way security guard before she reaches Mrs. Fisk and yanks her by the back of her gown.

“Miss Freebush! What are you-” Mrs. Fisk snaps.

“Shut up Fisk,” Karen cuts her off as she snatches the crown off the pillow. “You are so under arrest it’s not even funny.”

Mrs. Fisk scowls, and then rears back and punches her in the face.

_Fuck_.

By the time her head stops spinning and she blinks the stars from her eye, Mrs. Fisk is gone.

On the positive side, Karen still has the crown in her hands.

On the negative side—

She has a live fucking bomb in her hands, and no way to render safe.

“Shit.”

Sitting up, she turns the crown over in her hands and tries to differentiate which parts of the crown are knock-off Swarovski crystals and which are actually part of the ignition device, because it turns out _the entire fucking crown_ is made from molded, painted, and polished C4.

These assholes do get points for creativity, this is the prettiest bomb she’s ever seen.

But all the same, she still has a fucking bomb on her hands.

Karen staggers to her feet and looks around, finds Frank still fighting Dex on the circular staircase of the giant Statue of Liberty stage decor, but it doesn’t look like either of them has their hands on the detonator.

Shit.

Her heart seizes up when Dex gets the upper hand and slams Frank into the railing, only for Elektra to come up from behind and yanks him out of the way, somehow managing to knee him in the back and grab Frank by the arm to steady him, so he doesn’t fall down the stairs head-first.

Okay, so Elektra can kick some ass. Good for her.

“ _Karen_!”

She looks back up at Frank, who points across the stage, and when Karen follows, she sees—

Fuck.

Mrs. Fisk coming up from her knees and fumbling with—

Yep, that’s the detonator.

With a look on her face that Karen _knows_ means they’re going to put Attempted Blowing-Up Of A Federal Agent on her charge sheet, Mrs. Fisk raises the detonator, and Karen—

She looks around, but there are too many people _literally everywhere_ for her to throw the crown away safely, except—

“Frank, get down!” She calls, before flinging the crown in the direction of Lady Liberty’s head.

The crown explodes, taking off half of Lady Liberty’s face, sending Karen stumbling back from the concussive force and the burst of heat. Looking away from the flames she sees Billy make a flying tackle to secure Mrs. Fisk, who definitely just got caught trying to blow up a federal officer _on national television_ , so at least this means the court case will probably go by quickly.

But that’s not actually important right now.

Because she can’t see Frank.

Running barefoot across the stage, Karen dodges past the last of the pitiful excuses for security guards, rounds the back of the staircase, and it’s only when she sees Frank and Elektra—covered in dirt and soot an more than a couple bruises—guiding a zip-tied Dex down the stairs that she can breathe again.

Frank passes Dex off to Elektra and rushes over, his hands tight enough on her upper arms to leave marks, “Are you all right?” He asks, out of breath, as his dark eyes scan her from top to bottom and back again.

“Well, thankfully Fisk has noodle-arms, so she wasn’t able to actually break my nose,” she quips.

With a roll of his eyes, Frank grumbles something under his breath that sounds like, “ _Smartass_ ,” before crushing her to his chest, and it’s a really nice hug, but—

Karen gets half a lungful of ash when she tries to take a breath, “Gotta be able to breathe here, Castle,” she manages, before Frank apologizes and lets her go.

“Come on,” she tugs at his arm. “Let’s get those dipshits into custody so I can take off these Spanx, and then you and I can have that conversation.”

Franks brows knit as he looks down at her dress again, “You’ve got layers on under that thing?”

“Yeah, and I can’t breathe because of it,” she says as they head around to where Billy is leading Mrs. Fisk toward the entrance to the auditorium. “I’m probably going to need a hand getting out of them, just so you know.”

He hums a response, and Karen knows the wheels are turning, but before he can respond to that, Frank nods with his chin to where Elektra is handing off Dex to another agent—

Elektra’s blind pageant coach.

“You uh, want to explain that to me?”

“Apparently, they’re Interpol agents. Investigating the Fisks. It’s really kind of embarrassing that we didn’t know ahead of time, by the way.”

Frank snorts, “This whole mission was a goddamn shitshow.”

“You’re not kidding.”

—

Dex and Mrs. Fisk are squared away in a pair of squad cars so they can sit tight in San Antonio PD custody while the whole FBI versus Interpol nonsense can be worked out by people who care more about inter-agency cooperation than Karen does, leaving the four agents standing in the middle of the crowded front parking lot to the auditorium.

“In the spirit of inter-agency cooperation, I’ll do what I can to smooth things over and give you guys access to the Fisks for your investigation,” Frank scrubs a bruised hand through his hair. “That is, if I’m not fired for this stunt, first.”

“If Ellison fires you, I’ll have his ass,” Karen scowls when he arches a sooty brow in her direction. “I gave up my badge, means I don’t work for him anymore, and I can do what I want.”

“I don’t think quitting works like that.”

“Try me, Castle.”

Elektra clears her throat, “And on that note, Matthew and I need to report to our superiors,” she loops her arm through her partner’s—a blind Interpol agent is probably even harder to believe than a blind pageant coach, but Karen guesses it takes all kinds—and leads him away. “Freebush, I’ll see you in the morning for the Farewell Breakfast. Don’t be late.”

“It’s Agent Page!” She calls to the Interpol agent’s back, but all Elektra does is flip her somehow not-at-all disheveled ponytail over her shoulder.

But, now that they’re gone—

She and Frank are alone—more or less—for the first time since their disastrous conversation not even 24 hours ago, and—

“Fuck, Karen,” Frank grabs her hand and pulls her around one of the million and a half fire engines now surrounding the building. “Look, I’m sorry. For all of it. I fucked up.”

“This whole thing was a fuckup. Just as bad at _the Fuckup_ , really,” Karen squeezes the hand that Frank has yet to release, and she’s one hundred percent on board with him not doing that. “You’re forgiven.”

“No, Karen,” with his free hand, Frank cups her cheek, the tips of his fingers tangling in the fall of her hair. “You have to understand—“

Oh, fuck it.

Karen fists her hand in the collar of Frank’s shirt and yanks his mouth down to hers.

He gasps against her lips before getting with the program, and—

Well, what else needs to be said?

—

Billy looks across the hotel parking lot, sees a poorly-concealed Frank and Karen making out next to a firetruck, because _of course_ it took a crown made out of C4 for them to get their shit together.

Those morons.

He scrambles for his phone, opens the text thread with Maria, which is full of message after message after message after message wondering _what the ever-loving fuck is going on out there_?

And a couple threats sprinkled in because he hasn’t had the chance to respond quite yet with everything that’s happened in the whirlwind of the last half-hour.

Even with whatever she saw happening on the broadcast, it would take _far_ too long to tell her everything via text.

It’s not even the most important thing she needs to know

Lifting his phone and feeling more than a little like a creepy voyeur, he snaps a picture and sends it over, along with, “ _Mission accomplished_.”

Oh, Frank is going to kill him when he finds out.

Worth it.

“You know, on a scale from one to massive creep, you’re really ranking pretty high right now, dude.”

Arching a brow at being called _dude_ , of all things, Billy glances over his shoulder, finds Fisk’s daughter standing a couple feet away, her own phone trained on Castle and Page, “You’re one to talk.”

“Oh come on,” Amy rolls her eyes, but does put down her phone after Billy pointedly tilts his head. “It’s for posterity. None of my friends are going to believe any of this if I don’t have evidence. Pics or it didn’t happen, you know?”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to the police?”

She shrugs one shoulder, “They’re done with me until the FBI gets it’s shit together, which,” she nods with her chin at Frank and Karen, who are still going at it, and toeing the line of public decency with their PDA. “Is clearly going to take a while.”

Billy shakes his head, “Come on, kid, let’s go find Lieberman and we’ll get you back to the hotel. I’ll buy you a burger.”

“And a beer?”

“No.”

“Drat.”

—

After the world’s longest pre-debriefing—aka, giving Ellison the rundown, so he can do it all over again as soon as they get back to New York tomorrow night, Lieberman lets himself out of his new room in the hotel, intent on taking a very long work break down at the hotel bar.

“What are you doing in Agent Page’s room?”

“Oh, she’s not in there right now,” he’s quick to assure as he rounds on the slim redhead from Massachusetts, the first-runner up in the pageant, ahead of Karen who apparently managed to finish in third. “Since Miss New Hampshire got upgraded to the Presidential Suite after her win, and I’ve been turfed out of my own room, I’m crashing here for the night.”

Her brow ticks, “What happened to your room?”

“It’s, uh, _ocupado_ , if you know what I mean,” he says, flicking a pointed glance back at Karen’s door.

Sarah blinks before understanding dawns on her, “ _Oh_ , Karen with, uh-Agent Castle, was it?”

“Yeah, talk about long time coming. I can’t wait to get back to New York to figure out who won the pool.”

Sarah’s brows hike to her hairline, “A pool? Really?”

“ _Oh yeah_ ,” he says, quite emphatically. “This thing was _years_ in the making. Even Frank’s ex-wife is in on it. I could tell you about it, maybe over a couple drinks down at the bar?”

A slow smile spreads across Sarah’s face, “Lead the way, Agent Lieberman.”

He holds his arm out to her, and she curves a delicate hand around his elbow, “Please, call me David.”

—

“Did you know that it’s actually easier to shave your legs if you do it once a week, rather than every three or four months?”

It’s been a few hours since an extremely embarrassed firefighter asked them to stop making out against his rig. They headed back to the hotel, and Frank helped her out of her dress and double-layered Spanx, Karen helped him out of his half-destroyed shirt and his pants, they shared a shower, and went a couple rounds in one of the two beds in Frank’s room.

So, all in all, not a bad way to end her night.

Frank, who hasn’t stopped running his hand through her damp hair since she started coming down from the high of her most-recent orgasm, grunts, and Karen thinks that that might be all he’s capable of at the moment before he adds, “Can’t say I did.”

“I mean, I guess all the torture Billy put me through was worth it, just for that knowledge bomb.”

Frank groans and tugs her closer, “I’ve had enough talk about bombs for one lifetime.”

Rolling up on her elbow, Karen rests her palm on his sternum, fingertips not far from the scar he picked up back in the day from an actual hunting bolt—a story that he claims is classified, but that Karen just assumes is actually just embarrassing, “Well okay,” she leans in, brushes her nose against his before kissing him, quick. “I guess we can find something else to talk about.”

He buries his hand back into the fall of her hair, “Or not,” he says as he tugs her back down and rolls her onto her back.

_Or not_ totally works too.

—

**Eight Months Later**

Fighting through traffic from LaGuardia to her apartment is one of the primary reasons why _Karen detests traveling_.

Funny enough, now that travel is now a major component of her new career.

One of the major drawbacks to the shitshow in San Antonio was that in the aftermath, Karen’s face was _plastered_ all over the news for months, thus sending her FBI career right into the proverbial toilet.

And Frank was right, quitting the force wasn’t exactly just a matter of giving up her badge and gun, but—that was still the beginning of the end.

Other than everything she had to endure from the Review Board for not just the role she played in The Fuckup, but also her insubordination in Texas—even if said insubordination led to the apprehension of a serial bomber and was the jumping off point into the successful joint investigation with Interpol about all the shady shit Dex was getting up to with Mrs. Fisk’s husband.

It all balanced out to a slap on the wrist, but also came with the heavy recommendations from every single one of her superiors that she find new employment.

On the positive side, there apparently are a _lot_ of organizations that have come out of the woodwork, willing to fork out an obscene amount of money for her to travel the country teaching women self-defense for a few hours. A few pageants too, even.

It’s not the life she ever imagined she’d have, but Karen wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Especially because of what she gets to come home to.

“I’m back,” she calls as she drops her overnight bag in the entry-way to Frank’s apartment—which is pretty much her apartment too now, barring the last few boxes she needs to move out from her old place by the end of the month.

“Hey,” Frank calls from the direction of the living room, where she hears the television on low, mostly drowned out by the snores of their pit bull, Max.

Karen finds him stretched out on the couch with a book in his hands, Max curled up and snoozing away on Frank’s legs. She leans over the back, wrapping an arm across his chest as she leans down and drops a peck on his mouth, “I missed you,” she murmurs, pressing another kiss to the side of his head as she leans more of her weight against the couch. “I miss anything exciting?”

Dropping the book on his lap, Frank wraps his fingers around her wrist, “The kids missed you, Maria wants to do lunch next week, and we’re getting dinner with Lieberman and Sarah tomorrow night,” he lists as he shifts his grip on her hand, tangling their fingers together.

“Okay,” she nods, her nose brushing against his temple. “And how’s the kid?”

“Billy sent Amy down to Florida for a summer diving program run by one of our buddies from the Marines yesterday. He said he’s forward any and all gator selfies.”

Karen snorts.

How Billy ended up with Amy Fisk’s custody, she’ll never know, but apparently it’s working out.

It turned out to be the best option for Amy, considering neither Vanessa nor Wilson Fisk had any other family that was willing to take her in.

“Oh,” Frank adds, pulling her from her thoughts. “And Karen Freebush got a letter.”

“What?”

Frank nods with his chin to the coffee table, where a large, cream-colored envelope rests next to the remote.

Untangling from Frank’s grasp, Karen rounds the couch and perches by his hip. While Frank wraps his arm around her waist, she leans forward and picks it up off the table.

The return-address is somewhere deep in the Upper East Side, and her brows hike to her hairline as she opens it.

“ _You are cordially invited to the nuptials of Marci Eleanor Stahl and Franklin Percy Nelson on—_ holy shit, they’re still together? I could have sworn Stahl would have eaten him alive by now.”

Frank snorts, “Guy must be into it.”

Karen snorts right back, scanning the invitation—wedding date, blackest of black tie, to be held upstate at some fancy something-or-other.

Honestly, she’s not sure which relationship that sparked from the San Antonio Shitshow surprises her more, David hooking up with Sarah Breckenridge, or Marci asking Foggy out at the end of the pageant’s Farewell Breakfast.

It’s really a tossup.

The RSVP card falls out of the envelop, and Karen notices that not only has it already been filed out— _yes, more than happy to attend to share this wonderful day with you both,_ but there’s a plus-one filled checked off, and a handwritten note on the back.

_We’re getting the gang back together, Miss Congeniality. Don’t forget to bring your Special Agent! - Marci_

Leaning back against Frank, she groans and passes him the card, “Guess this means I should call Billy, have him find you a dress.”

With another groan, Karen flops back against him, “Shut up Castle.”

Frank wraps his arm around her, kisses her temple, “Come on Page, it’ll be fun.”

“It’s going to be like the pageant all over again, and knowing Marci, she’s going to get all 50 girls to show up, including Agent Natchios.”

“At least there will probably be an open bar? And no bikinis, they don’t fall in the category of ‘black tie’.”

Karen hums, shifts so she’s lying across the couch with her head on his shoulder, her feet brushing against Max’s back, “Good point.”

“That mean we’re going?”

With a laugh, Karen presses her mouth to his t-shirt clad shoulder, “You know we don’t have a choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On that note, bon voyage to this fic, and more importantly, bon voyage to ME, because I’m off on a cruise on Sunday! I have a couple drabble-ish length story ideas that have been bouncing around my noggin the last couple days, and I’ll try to get them written while on the boat with the fam. Expect those when I get back!
> 
> Oh, and also, What’s In The Folder is officially a go!
> 
> What is What’s In The Folder going to be about? Well…
> 
> Post TPS1, Road Trip AU - Karen is summoned to the DA’s office for a meeting with Blake Tower, who gives her a folder with information about [REDACTED]. Karen and Frank go on a road trip to [REDACTED].
> 
> I am like, REALLY freaking excited for this one, you guys. Coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come!


End file.
